Prompts
by olehistorian
Summary: A place for Chelsie prompt challenges that I've compiled through the years. All are Carson and Hughes focused with the appearance of other characters as necessary. Canon as well as AU.
1. Beginnings

**Beginnings**

With efficient and practiced ease, she makes her rounds. Her stride is easy without the ring of keys jingling at her hip and softly, contentedly she sings a song from her homeland. She is free to do that now that she is mistress of her own house. She finds that she sings more often and their house is filled with song, gentle conversation, and easy laughter between husband and wife. Elsie finds this man she lives with is much different now that he is no longer Butler. His step is lighter, his countenance brighter, less strained. His romantic heart beating freely, unfettered.

Elsie Carson runs a slender finger across window casements, mantelpieces, and tables making sure that they are free of settled dust. Each guestroom is spotless. The cupboards aired and dusted. The beds made with a lovely duvets and crisp white sheets tucked into perfect corners. The bedside tables have fresh flowers from the garden, tended by Charles' hand. She reaches bends, plucks up a few stems, and rearranges them until she is satisfied. The gauzy curtains glow a milky yellow as the sun breaks through the windows. Shadows of tree limbs move across them like dancers across a stage as the breeze blows gently outside. The leaves will be falling soon.

She hears a knock at the door, his footsteps cross the floor, and the door opens. As she makes her way down the stairs, his deep voice drifts through every nook and cranny of the house. She brushes her hands across her dress, an old habit when she is nervous or excited, and steps toward her husband.

"Please meet my wife," he says smiling, introducing their first guest to her.


	2. Accusation

Day #2: Accusation

A/N: This one is angsty. Sorry. Blame it on the prompt. You know they make up in the end.

Elsie sees the blood drain from her husband's face. Watches his lovely brow knit into a knot of anger as his face become thunderous with barely controlled fury. Charles tosses the rest of the post down on the kitchen table and clutches one envelope between his thumb and forefinger as she watches as his eye bathe over the return address. When he finally looks to her, he takes a deep breath, presses his lips together tightly before speaking; the cleft in his chin pronounced from the pressure.

"This is highly improper," he finally spits out. "How long has this been going on?"

Elsie places her teacup on its saucer, pushes it gently aside; she folds her arms across her chest defiantly. "Whatever, are you on about?" she asks incredulously.

"This!" he tells her, waving the envelope dramatically. "It is highly improper for a married woman to correspond with a man. Especially one who asked her to marry him. Twice!" She watches as Charles puffs out his chest like a peacock on display as he tosses the envelope bearing Joe Burns name onto the table.

Elsie cannot but help roll her eyes at the theatrics of the broad man who stands in front of her. _Style and show_. More show, now days she thinks. Hmmphf. "If I had corresponded with Joe, there would be nothing improper about it," she snaps back. "But I assure you that I haven't." She and Charles look at one another in silence for a long moment. A stalemate before she challenges, "Read it for yourself. Go on. I dare you."

_Why must she dare me_, he thinks. _Infuriating woman. _Charles snatches the envelope from the table and rips open the flap. He tears the letter from its confines and unfolds it. Elsie glares at him as she sees his face transform from righteous indignation to shame and embarrassment.

"Well?" Elsie asks.

"Well. Ehm, he says congratulations on our marriage. He found out from some mutual friends and got our address from Mrs. Patmore. He wishes you…us…every happiness," Charles finishes quietly as he folds the letter and places it back into the envelope. He clutches the back of a kitchen chair; his head hangs low. He cannot meet her gaze.

She begins to walk past him just as she had so very many times at the Abbey after a heated disagreement. Charles gently catches her wrist and she pauses, yet neither looks at the other.

"I'm sorry Elsie. I don't know what came over me," he admits. When she fails to give him the absolution that he seeks, he loosens his hold on her. She walks away. He knows that her temper will cool, that they will make amends. That she will forgive him; that she likely already has.


	3. Restless

Day #3

Restless

Charles Carson lies awake his hand pressed into his belly; his stomach knotted with pangs of regret and remorse. He feels that he might retch any moment, can feel the bile climbing into his throat the acidic taste burning his tongue. His wife is rolled onto her side facing away from him and the chasm between them feels greater than third meter that separates them. He looks to her, sees the soft roundness of her shoulder, the plait of her hair hanging over it; the gentle curve of her hip, her bottom, the length of her leg. He kicks off the covers and darts for the bathroom, throws open the toilet lid, and heaves. Nothing. He pulls a flannel from the cupboard and runs it under the cool water from the tap, wrings it out, and rubs it across his face. The man who stares back at him from the mirror above the sink is worn, ashamed, and fearful.

Elsie Carson has not slept. She is laying awake, nerves frayed, the atmosphere between them more than she can bear. She has forgiven him but is not ready to talk about it. Knows that it is jealousy that caused him to say it. _Jealousy_. Something that she does not understand. Except perhaps once if she is honest with herself. She was jealous of Haxby Park. Of the little minx who wanted him to leave Downton. To leave her. She hears him in the bathroom but does not go to him. Not this time. He has hurt her badly. He has said things in the past, told her that she disappointed him, that he didn't think that she was a woman of no standards, but this, this was….. And then she hears him shuffle down the corridor to the kitchen. She hears a chair scrape against the floor and him sigh heavily as he sits down. The house is stone cold silent except for….she sits up, listens. Her feet hit the floor and she shutters for a moment, the cold sending pain through the delicate bones.

She finds him staring into the abyss. His face crimson and twisted in anguish, wet with tears. He looks up to her and she is with him instantly; cradling him to her breast, his tears flowing into the soft fabric of her nightgown. His shoulders shake in release and she weaves her fingers through his hair to soothe him.

"I understand if you want to…." he begins before she cuts him off.

"….I am not _her_," she tells him emphatically. "I'll never intentionally hurt you. And I'll never leave you."

He lifts his head to find kind eyes, forgiveness, and love. He knows that she means what she has said. She pulls back, reaches for his hand, and tugs gently.

Soft sheets surround them as they bare themselves to one another in every way a man and a woman can bear themselves. Gentle caresses lead to words of repentance and acceptance and renewal of vows of devotion and love everlasting. Gentleness gives way to electricity and thanks to heaven above; the crying out of her name, of his. Homecoming. Healing. Ghosts of the past exorcized.


	4. Before the First Snowflake Falls

Day #4

Before the first **Snowflake **Falls

A/N: For a bit of nostalgic fluff

"Ahhh," Mr. Carson breathes in deeply. His hands clasp firmly behind his back, he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, pride playing across his face as he watches their young charges. This is the last winter that he will watch Downton's staff enjoy snow for in a few months he will take the woman standing beside him to their new house. The one he bought for them, registered in both their names. Joy fills him as he thinks that when the next snow falls, they will be in their home, together by the fire. He pictures her curled into him, watching from the window in their sitting room as pristine snowflakes settle to the ground.

"It's a good thing you've done, Mr. Carson. Allowing the younger staff the time to enjoy the snow," Mrs. Hughes says with a smile in her voice. Two weeks ago, she would have never believed that this would be the last winter they will spend at the Abbey. The last winter she will send young housemaids bundled up in coats, scarves, and mittens out into the cold and watch as they frolic in the snow. As they scamper, not too quickly, from the hurling snowballs thrown by the young hallboys. As they cry in feigned protest when the white bombs burst into powder on the backs of their coats. She smiles as she watches this wintry mating ritual. She will miss these youngsters but her mind, her heart, her body longs to be with him, for the next snow. Cocooned in their home, in his embrace, as the winter winds blow.

He mentions that he loves winter, which she finds infinitely odd. Winter is cold, she tells him. Barren, without color or life. She sees him more as a spring or a summer soul, she says. Someone who relishes the bustling activity of life's renewal; the comfort of knowing that God is in his heaven, order restored from the desolation of winter.

"I think for me, it's that moment before the first snowflake falls. When the air is crisp and cold. When I take that first breath, it clears the soot out of my lungs. It pushes out the fallen leaves of autumn and hints of new things to come."

"My, my Mr. Carson. You _are_ quite the poet," Mrs. Hughes says admiringly as she looks to her beloved before once again casting her gaze to the young people out in the gardens. As she watches, pulling her coat tighter to stave off the chill, memories come flooding back as if it were yesterday. She thinks back on reaching down with small hands into fresh white powder, scooping it up, watching it fly through the air like sea spray. Of the winter she was eight and her father taught her to ice skate on the frozen pond near the old farmhouse. Years later of the day she arrived at Downton, snow falling gently, and the Butler meeting her at the back door. She doubts he remembers. Why would he? She was only the new head housemaid then.

"Well, you see Mrs. Hughes," he says turning to her, "winter is special to me in a way."

"Oh?" she asks, her eyes meeting his, anticipation electric.

"If I tell you, you won't think me too sentimental?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head gently. "No," she whispers.

"There was one February day, much like today, when I was taking in the winter's air. It was very cold and the first snowflake fell and then another and before long, well, snow began to cover the ground." She closes her eyes. He remembers. When she opens them she sees something in his, a memory of yesterday, anticipation of things to come. "Off in the distance I saw a figure, a woman walking toward the house carrying a bag. She cut a striking figure, Mrs. Hughes. A striking figure." Charles unclasps his hands from behind his back and touches the small of her back. "With the snow falling around you like that, you quite took my breath away."

"Mr. Carson…."

"So, you see, Elsie, winter isn't all desolation. Not for me," he tells her. "The first snowflake that winter brought me…you."

Thank you all for your lovely reviews, comments, reblogs on Tumblr, etc. I do appreciate them. WOW! Has February been extraordinary for Chelsie fan fiction! I am humbled to be a small part of it. If you are inclined, please leave me line of review. I love them.


	5. Haze

Day #5

Haze

A/N: This one is different from the others. A bit of an experiment in stream of consciousness for our Butler. In addition, there are two different versions. I think that you will see what I mean. I had two different trains of thought so, I thought that I would write both. So, if you aren't so pleased with the first, perhaps you will like the second. Thanking you in advance for reading.

A/N 2: The words in italics are words that Carson might say to himself – inner dialogue.

A collar that is too tight. A tug of the waistcoat. A glance at his pocket watch. Charles Carson waits at the front of the church for her and his mind is a muddle of thoughts. A haze of soft, pictures, snapshots in time, that overlap as if dropped into a box. There is no rhyme nor reason to them and he cannot control them. Cannot control how they drift in and out or where they land. He is a bundle of nerves and knows that all of their eyes are on him. Knows that they are watching for his reaction, to see if he will gasp for breath when he sees her or if a tear will roll down his cheek. He is waiting and his mind is racing faster than his heartbeat.

_She's late. She's never late. What is taking so long? Everything was arranged last night. They told me so_. Competing visions of shifting sand beneath bare toes, cool water lapping against bare ankles. Cloudless sky and the call of seagulls. A new blue sweater. A lovely straw hat. A soft, warm hand. Touch. _Dashing away with a smoothing iron_. _She stole my heart away_. _I cannot sit here much longer. _A lovely green coat; a night at the village fair. A farmer who proposed. _So you won't be leaving us then? "_Leaving? When would I find the time?_"_ Relief washing over insecurity, over fear.

_You do if you think that I am asking you to marry me. _A promise exchanged; her hand smoothed across sleeved arm. "_Of course I'll marry you. I thought you'd never ask."_

He looks around the church; looks past the flowers that were snipped from Downton's gardens, past the familiar faces of their friends, finds the face of his favorite. She smiles reassuringly. _Everything will be all right_ she seems to say. He smiles, nervously. _Thank you, milady. _

The snapshots come floating down like snowflakes, perfect in their singleness, hazy in their flurry. Two sherry glasses sitting side by side. A toaster_. "A treat for myself", _she had said_. _Smoke billowing from her room. A sand bucket in hand. Laughter. Her laughter_. Twas a Monday morning, when I beheld my darling. _

A trip into the village_. "An errand I have to do for myself." _Polishing silver. Waiting. Relief. A picture frame. A gift. A wound stitched up. A postcard on a notice board. A season in London. A business venture. A confession. A house. A deed with two names._ No need to change a plan. _

"Mr. Carson, we are ready to begin," he hears the vicar's voice softly in his ear and feels the vicar's hand on his shoulder. He nods, steadies himself as he stands to his feet; a tug at his waistcoat. "If you will follow me."

He follows the vicar through the arched doorway and into the courtyard. Anna approaches him, puts a hand on his arm, much the same way Elsie does…did. "_Are you all right, Mr. Carson?"_ She asked him the night Lady Sybil died. _You see I knew her all her life._

"Mr. Carson…did you hear me?" Anna asks again. He has not heard her. He can only hear _her_ through the haze of his grief. He only wants to hear Elsie; his other way.

"What?" he asks. "I'm sorry. I beg your pardon."

"I asked if you are all right. You can go back into the church if you want to. John and I will walk in with her," Anna answers sweetly. _So much Elsie's girl. So very much_.

He forces a smile and thanks her. _I must do this; I must not disappoint her_. He feels Anna's petite hand tuck into his elbow and John follows behind them. Mrs. Patmore finds them and takes her place. He feels empty. Incomplete. That his family is locked in a wooden box about to be received by the vicar. But her voices breaks through the haze that clouds his mind and it is her voice that jars him from his grief. "_Our family." _ They take their places behind those who will escort her today. Mr. Branson has come from America, Alfred from London, Mr. Molesley, Mr. Barrow, Andy, and young Jack Bates.

He thinks of the first time he saw her come down the aisle of this ancient church. Cream wedding suit. Lovely smile. "_From this day forward." I do. I thee endow. _And now, this, the last time. He hears the vicar speak but cannot make out the words instead he is reminded of something she said long ago; something he overheard her say for someone else. Something he says for her today. _The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone and I am weeping._

Version #2

A collar that is too tight. A tug of the waistcoat. A glance at his pocket watch. Charles Carson waits at the front of the church for her and his mind is a muddle of thoughts. A haze of soft, pictures, snapshots in time, that overlap as if dropped into a box. There is no rhyme nor reason to them and he cannot control them. Cannot control how they drift in and out or where they land. He is a bundle of nerves and knows that all of their eyes are on him. Knows that they are watching for his reaction, to see if he will gasp for breath when he sees her or if a tear will roll down his cheek. He is waiting and his mind is racing faster than his heartbeat.

_She's late. She's never late. What is taking so long? Everything was arranged last night. They told me so_. Competing visions of shifting sand beneath bare toes, cool water lapping against bare ankles. Cloudless sky and the call of seagulls. A new blue sweater. A lovely straw hat. A soft, warm hand. Touch. _Dashing away with a smoothing iron_. _She stole my heart away_. _I cannot sit here much longer. _A lovely green coat; a night at the village fair. A farmer who proposed. _So you won't be leaving us then? "Leaving? When would I find the time"_ Relief washing over insecurity, over fear.

_You do if you think that I am asking you to marry me. _A promise exchanged; her hand smoothed across sleeved arm. "_Of course I'll marry you. I thought you'd never ask."_

He looks around the church; looks past the flowers that were snipped from Downton's gardens, past the familiar faces of their friends, finds the face of his favorite. She smiles reassuringly. _Everything will be all right_ she seems to say. He smiles, nervously. _Thank you, milady. _

The snapshots come floating down like snowflakes, perfect in their singleness, hazy in their flurry. Two sherry glasses sitting side by side. A toaster_. "A treat for myself", _she had said_. _Smoke billowing from her room. A sand bucket in hand. Laughter. Her laughter_. Twas a Monday morning, when I beheld my darling. _

A trip into the village_. "An errand I have to do for myself." _Polishing silver. Waiting. Relief. A picture frame. A gift. A wound stitched up. A postcard on a notice board. A season in London. A business venture. A confession. A house. A deed with two names._ No need to change a plan. _

"Mr. Carson, we are ready to begin," he hears the vicar's voice softly in his ear and feels the vicar's hand on his shoulder. He nods, steadies himself as he stands to his feet; a tug at his waistcoat. "If you will follow me."

He stands straight as an arrow in front of the congregation, in the presence of the vicar, and God. He is dressed in his new blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie. He breathes in deeply, pats his waistcoat, feels the circular piece of gold that is tucked away safely in the pocket there. He turns just in time to see her at the back of the church, bathed in sunlight. And he hears them; the audible and collective sigh of the women. _Bloody hell. _ He realizes that his mouth has dropped open. He has never seen anything more beautiful. A cream suit. So very different from the blacks and grays she normally wears. She has never owned anything like it. A gift from Lady Grantham. She is stunning and the breath leaves his lungs. "_Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Had a wife?" _ He remembers to breathe._ I do want to be stuck with you. _

A hazy blur of ancient scripture, words, and promises. _"_I will….To honor and obey_." "_With all my world goods I thee endow." A ring slipped onto a finger. A kiss. Another sigh from the women. A wedding brunch. An endless line of well wishes and congratulations. _Yes, thank you. We are very happy. _ All still a haze and all he thinks of is her. A lovely cream suit. A brilliant smile. Their house. As he watches her across the room, she catches his gaze and smiles. He lifts a glass of wedding punch to his lips and cannot banish the thoughts from his mind. Snapshots of stockings lovingly peeled from freckled legs. A corset unfastened. Pins falling from her hair. A shift lifted. Knickers drifting to the floor. Sweet kisses. Passionate ones. A tangle of limbs. Legs. Hands roaming. Homecoming. Suddenly the haze lifts. He is married to this woman. This woman who is a mystery he will likely never solve. Will spend the rest of his life trying. He sets the punch cup down and makes his excuses to those around him. Suddenly, his hand is smoothing across the cream fabric that covers the small of her back and he is discreetly in her ear. Suggests they make their way home. His implication is not lost on her and he feels the heat rise from her body and mingle with his own. The hazy veil of singular life lifts and that of two made one begun.

**Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate all of your reviews (I hope that I have responded to everyone), reblogs, likes, etc. I covet every one of them. If you are inclined, I'd love it if you let me know what you think. x**


	6. Flame

Day #6

Flame

A/N: Definitely going M rating here. It is a continuation of the second version of "Haze" from Chapter 5. If the last chapter was from Charles' perspective then this is from Elsie's. I have a music recommendation while you are reading: Norah Jones' Turn Me On, is an excellent companion piece for this little reading. You can find it on YouTube, Spotify, or your platform of choice.

The flame of desire burns hot between them. That which has been the kindling of friendship, the smoulderings of flirtation, roars to life now as they give in to thing that has hung in the balance between them for so long. The thing dampened by duty and service. A firestorm of passion overtakes her, sweeps her up as her husband's fingertips flicker over her skin; skin that craves touch, has craved his touch. His lips against her neck, whispering words of love, devotion, and desire sets her aflame with want that only he can quench.

She had thought a proposal at her age unlikely; passion unthinkable. But he has proved her wrong and the heat that passes between them now as he tenderly maps every contour, every curve and dip of her body is undeniable. His lips moist and supple seek purchase over her shoulder, over her collarbone, and she breathes heavy knowing that he wants her in the way that a man wants his woman, his wife. Not out of obligation nor companionship but out of burning, consuming desire. And her breath hitches as he reaches her breast, lavishes it in kisses and she can feel his tongue worshipping her. This man, so ordered and traditional, burns hot for her and she clutches at his shoulder with one hand and cards another through his hair. She pulls him up to her, searching his eyes, finds them black as soot with lust, and she claims his lips.

When the kiss breaks, he smiles against her lips, and tells her that she is beautiful. She hasn't been told often, but she believes him, knows that he isn't just saying it because she is laying here naked beneath him, her skin pressed beneath his. And suddenly, she feels the friction of their joining and out of habit pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A question is asked, an answer given.

Her hands sweep along his thighs, his back, and she marvels at the strength there. Yet in his strength he is gentle with her, tells her that she is everything to him. As gentleness gives way to frenzy, she calls out his name, _please… yes…. god… I never thought_. There is ecstasy and rapture in one and as he falls against her, her face rests in his shoulder, his weight welcome against her. And she realizes that this is a flame that time will never snuff out, a fire that that she never wants quenched.

**Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate all of your reviews (I hope that I have responded to everyone), reblogs, likes, etc. I covet every one of them. If you are inclined, I'd love it if you let me know what you think. x**


	7. Formal

Day #7

Formal

A/N: Inspired by a little chatter on Tumblr about the perfect proposal….

Charles Carson is worried; tossing and turning in his singularly small bed in the attics. The bed that is too short for him; the bed that if he stretches completely out, his feet will hang over the end. He folds his pillow again; this time in half and tucks his hand underneath. He has folded it at least three other ways but cannot seem to get it right and even the bed covers are a right mess. Grumbling and huffing to himself, he throws the covers back and sits on the side of his bed, his feet squarely planted on the floor. His hand brushes across the scruff of his neck and he shakes his head in disbelief. _I do want to be stuck with you. Hmmphf. What kind of proposal is that? She deserves a formal proposal and you tell her you want to be "stuck" with her. _

Restless, Charles decides to retreat to his pantry for a cup of tea and to form a plan to propose to Mrs. Hughes, again. To make a formal proposal worthy of her. As he winds his way down the servants' staircase his mind runs wild with accusation. _She always has to read between the lines. Why can't you just say what you mean? A business venture? Business venture. Hmmphf. Knowing the whole time, you could buy the house on your own. All a plan to retire together. With her. Married. _ By the time that he reaches the servants' corridor, he has worked himself into quite a state when he sees a light coming from the kitchen. Pausing, he wonders who might be up at this hour. Surely not Mrs. Patmore; she rarely leaves her room once she retires for the night. Most of the younger staff stay in their rooms as well. He and Mrs. Hughes make sure of that. He realizes that the only two who burn the midnight oil are…

"Mrs. Hughes what are you doing up at this hour?" he asks catching her off guard.

"Well, I was making a cuppa Mr. Carson," she replies sweetly. "You see I couldn't sleep."

"Um, well, yes, neither could I. May I join you?"

"Of course. You needn't ask," she assures him as she places a teacup in front of him. As she readies the tea things, she senses the butler's stiffness and decides to inquire as to the reason for his sleeplessness. "Mr. Carson, why is it that you cannot sleep?"

She watches as Charles begins to gesture nervously, choose his words carefully. She places her hand on his arm, much as she had earlier in the evening. Now she hopes to soothe him and give him the confidence he needs to tell her what he needs to say. "Mrs. Hughes," he finally manages, "I have done you a disservice."

"A disservice?" she asks with a tilt of her head.

"Yes. I should have, what I mean to say is…." and Elsie watches as Charles begins to drop to one knee but before he can, she stops him.

"Mr. Carson is that what is worrying you?" she smiles tenderly.

"You deserve a formal proposal, Elsie," he tells her.

"I wouldn't know what to say if I didn't have to read between the lines," she laughs before turning serious. "Not everything has to be style and show, Charles." They look at each other a long moment the energy between them electric.

"There is one, other thing," he remarks.

"Yes," she answers a little breathless.

"Another formality that I think is in order," his voice rumbling low.

While the housekeeper never received a "formal" proposal from the butler, they did enjoy one of the pleasures of becoming formally affianced as he pulled her close to enjoy their first, chaste kiss.

**Thank you for reading. If you are inclined please let me know what you think. **


	8. Companion

February 9

Companion

A/N: This little story has a heavy helping of Hughes and Patmore and will be a companion (see how I worked that in) to the next chapter "Move" which will feature Carson.

Approaching the housekeeper's sitting room, Mrs. Patmore stopped. Gripping a little tighter the tray that she held, she watched as the housekeeper stood behind a folding table, carefully wrapping brown paper around a picture frame and then place it into a box. The old cook's heart stirred more than she'd expected. From her vantage point in the corridor, she watched the fluid movements of housekeeper as she moved about the room gathering things collected over her years in service. A framed silhouette of herself as a young woman, some books, and letters that she'd saved. A small, white porcelain box.

"I thought you might like a break," Mrs. Patmore managed, nudging the half-closed door open and lifting the tea try a little higher in offering.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I'm sure that Mr. Carson would like to join us as well, I'll just go fetch him," the housekeeper said as she began to move past the cook.

"Um, well, before you do, I was hoping that we might have a minute together," the cook said with uncertainty. The housekeeper noticed the apprehension on her friend's face and ushered her in, offered her a seat at the small table where they had so often taken tea together. "Her Ladyship gave that to you didn't she?" Mrs. Patmore asked flicking her eyes to the little porcelain box.

"She did," she housekeeper acknowledged as she began to sort the tea things. "It was the first Christmas after I'd been promoted to Housekeeper. It was the most expensive thing I'd ever owned," she laughed. She noticed the frown on Mrs. Patmore's face; it was unusual to see the cook so unhappy. "Mrs. Patmore, why the long face? Are you upset with Daisy about something?"

The cook looked down into her tea that the housekeeper had prepared perfectly. A splash of milk and one sugar. She wondered how the housekeeper kept the minutest details straight. She supposed, for a moment, that it was her job to remember things about people. Their likes and dislikes. The things that made their days brighter or when they needed encouragement. But realized quickly enough, that it was the character of the woman not her position that made the difference.

"It's not Daisy, the reason I am upset," she finally answered.

"No?" the housekeeper inquired, though not wanting to press.

Mrs. Patmore placed her teacup on the table and folded her hands in her lap. "I'll be all alone." she finally admitted.

The housekeeper's face melted into sympathy at the confession of her old friend. "Mrs. Patmore, you'll not be alone, you have all of these youngsters about, and Daisy…"

"….Daisy! Who knows how long she'll be here? With all her learnin'," the cook cried.

"Oh, Mrs. Patmore, surely you'll be ready to be rid of Mary Queen of Scots," the housekeeper attempted to tease before tears filled her own eyes. The two women looked at one another a moment.

"I did think you bloody imperious."

"And I thought you loud and stubborn," the housekeeper laughed as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"We've made a good team, 'aven't we?" the cook mused. "Never thought we'd become friends…companions."

"But we have, Mrs. Patmore. On all acocunts," the housekeeper admitted as she took a sip of her tea. Mrs. Patmore reached into her apron pocket and fished out bundle of cards tied with twine. She pushed them across the table to the housekeeper. "What's this?"

"Just some recipes that you and Mr. Carson enjoy," Mrs. Patmore answered as she watched the housekeeper thumb through the cards. Watching as the housekeeper looked over each card, Mrs. Patmore became worried. The housekeeper had gone silent; her jaw set, lips pressed into a deep set, straight line. "I didn't mean to suggest that you can't cook, 'cause I know that you can. Oh, Lord, I'm sorry, if I have offended you….."

"…Mrs. Patmore, you've not offended me," the housekeeper looked up from the stack of cards she clutched in her hands. "You've included every dish that Mr. Carson and I love. This is the most thoughtful gift," she assured the cook, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages.

"It doesn't measure up to porcelain boxes I'm afraid," Mrs. Patmore demurred, casting her eyes to her lap.

The housekeeper reached across the table to pat the hand of her friend. "You're right Mrs. Patmore, but it is the porcelain box that doesn't measure up."

**Thank you for reading. So if you are inclined please let me know what you think. **


	9. Move

9 February part b

Move

A/N: The companion to "Companion" which is the previous chapter so, if you haven't read that and you are inclined you may wish to start there.

As Carson surveys his pantry, it seems surprisingly the same as it had the day he moved into it. The desk has changed; that had been his first order of business on assuming the room for his own. Mr. Brown had used an old roll-top model that stood pressed against the far wall. The desk's upper cabinet was full of pigeonholes and the old butler stuffed every paper he had, it seemed, into them. Carson thought that they looked like dead leaves about to fall from a tree at the end of autumn or unruly children hanging off carousel horses at a fair. Carson laughs to himself at the memory of sending the hall boys up to the attics to find the largest, but most appropriate, desk they could carry down the stairs. He then stood back as they arranged it several times until he was satisfied that its position in the room gave him the best vantage point at which to look commanding, imperious. _Style and show._ Even with the arrangement of his tools. Every item set with measured care. The stamp box, the ink blotter, the inkwell. All of it carefully arranged. The Book of Common Prayer that had been his mother's. All of that now packed, just this morning. All of those memories carefully wrapped and boxed away by two young housemaids.

He fingers through the boxes that sit on the empty desktop now. Two boxes that contain the personal possessions from his pantry, of his life as Butler. He picks up a book, examines the spine. Dracula. He shakes his head fondly. She had gifted it to him one Christmas and dared him to read it. Told him to let his mind escape into pleasures of dark fiction. To get his nose out of military history, Burke's peerage, and to read just for the enjoyment of voyaging to another, perhaps darker world. He opens the cover to find the inscription still crisp and clear, years later. All of his books are still pristine. Not a page turned down to mark a favorite passage nor a bookmark stuck inside. He thinks of how he used to bristle when he saw her mark her place by turning down the corner of a page. He chuckles at the thought now. Thinks of how his perfect books and hers with dog-eared pages will sit side by side on their bookshelf at their home. He feels the corners of his lips tug into a soft smile.

"Are you ready for us to take those, Mr. Carson?" he hears Andy calling from behind him. Broken from his thoughts, he ushers Andy and a hallboy into his pantry, steps aside as they gather the boxes. He takes one last look around and no, not much has changed.

"A penny for them," her voices caresses his ear as her hand slips into his.

"I thought this day would never come," he replies, sounding a little more melancholy than he means to. He feels her hand squeeze his gently. "I didn't mean it quite that way."

"I know," she assures him. "Come on, best be getting home, Mr. Carson. They've work to do." He closes the door behind him. Knows it will be the last time that he does so as Butler. That in an hour or so the guard will change, that Mr. Barrow will be the one sitting behind his desk. Or perhaps, he too, will select a new one. Have Andy and the boys bring it down from the attics. Stand over them while they arrange it just so.

As they pass by the kitchens, she pauses, tells him to wait. "Mrs. Patmore, have you a moment," she inquires.

The cook looks up from her task, finds the couple standing before her. Wonders how this will go, their goodbye. She's tried to push it out of her mind. She'll miss them, the burly man who has held her hand in sickness, brokered peace when arguments over store cupboard key erupted, infuriated her over war memorials. And the housekeeper, her unlikely friend. A precarious bond borne of close quarters and necessity. A deep friendship, tempered by age, wisdom, understanding; unshakable now. "You're on your way then?" Mrs. Patmore manages, sniffles already rising in her throat, tears pricking her eyes.

"We are," Mrs. Carson replies. "Now, you know we are not far away and Mr. Carson has installed a telephone so that you can call if you need to. And you are always welcome…" Elsie falters; a hand flies to her mouth.

"….anytime, Mrs. Patmore," he finishes the words his wife cannot manage. "Anytime."

"Thank you for that," she replies, taking a flannel from the pocket of her apron and wiping her eyes.

"Well, then," Elsie all but whispers, thorough a veil of tears. She embraces the cook, hugs her fiercely, determined to make sure that she knows how much she is valued. As they break apart, Elsie casts her eyes back to her husband who seems deeply embarrassed. She laughs and the tension breaks. "I'd better be off before he's completely mortified by all this sentimentality." Charles rolls his eyes and begins to protest but thinks better of it as she tugs at his hand again.

"Off you go, you two," the cook waves her chubby hand.

As they begin to walk away, Elsie stops and turns. "Oh, Mrs. Patmore. I left something for you. It's in my sitting room. Wait until we've gone and then go find it."

After they have left, made their final goodbyes and received well wishes from the staff, Mrs. Patmore makes her way to the housekeeper's sitting room. Mrs. Baxter hasn't taken it over yet and it is still empty of any personal effects except one smartly wrapped parcel on the desk and a letter leaned against it. She opens the letter and reads many of the sentiments that she knew the housekeeper might never be able to tell her in person. How lost she would have been without her support during her health scare, how she enjoyed their little gossips, how she remembers their first real row over the store cupboard key. How if she had another sister, she would wish it to be her. That she knows that she and Mrs. Baxter will work well together. That some changes are to be made but that Elsie believes she will approve. She leaves the cook one final instruction. To open the package.

As the ribbon falls away and the paper is unwrapped, the lovely white porcelain box comes into view. Tears fill the old cook's eyes, not because she had admired the box and her friend thought to give it to her but for what was instead inside it. "Mary Queen of Scots," the cook muttered fondly as she tucked the key inside her pocket.

**Whew! Two in one day! I thank you all for your reblogs, reviews, guest comments, readership etc. I am diligently trying to work my way to respond to the reviews. I will get to you. Right now, I am writing an exam on ancient history. Thanks for hanging in with me. x**


	10. Silver

Day #10

Silver

She'll not begrudge the gentle snoring nor the murmurings he makes in his sleep, not so long as she cradles his head on her breast and his hand is wrapped around her hip; it means he is happy, content and all is well. Her fingers play through his hair, though she is careful not to wake him, because she covets this time in when he is asleep and she can study him. Study his features, the thick dark lashes that she wishes she had; the slope of his nose; how his ears draw to a slight point. The prodigious brows that have, from time to time, furrowed in confusion because he did not understand her and then softened when he finally did. The shoulder that aches when rain is coming; the one, she rubs liniment into and presses a warm flannel onto while his sits in the bath.

He startles a bit and she worries that she has awakened him, but realizes that he is simply dreaming. She makes out the words "ring the gong," "get that upstairs," "Mrs. Hughes," and she smiles. He still calls her that sometimes. She doesn't mind, not really. As he shifts, he pulls her closer and a sliver of moonlight peeks around the drapes and catches the silver in his hair. She reaches down and drops a kiss to his there, her fingers glide across his chest and shoulder.

She thinks of the silver strands in his hair, the marks of a distinguished man. How they add an air of respectability. That he has earned them. That he is more handsome now with graying temples and filaments of silver shining through the black. And suddenly she thinks of the silver threads that have bound them together through the years. The smell of silver polish that will always remind her of him. The silver platter he'd been holding that night in the dining room when she thought she might lose him, dropped to the floor. The one that he polished as he sang for her. That he tossed it into the air amazes her still. The silver frame with a woman's picture in it. The bandage for a stitched up wound.

She looks to the band on her finger. The one that he placed there. The one with no beginning and no end. And the moonlight reflects off it too, casting a hard, brilliant silver spark. Her husband shifts again, murmurs her name, and draws her hand into his. She feels his thumb brush across her ring. Threads of silver, unbreakable.

**Thank you all for your reviews, PMs, reblogs, etc. If you are inclined, I'd love to hear from you. I am so enjoying reading all the other exquisitely talented Chelsie authors and I am humbled just to be a small part of you. x **


	11. Prepared

Day 11

Prepared

He prides himself on being prepared for any occasion, on of being a step ahead of the next man. On having the ability to read a room with a glance. To anticipate the needs or desires of his employers before they know themselves. A well-placed guiding hand here, a cup of tea perfectly prepared; being inconspicuously present when needed. A talent that makes him good at his job. Ensures that should he ever need a new position, one will be waiting. He has turned down plenty of offers throughout the years. Offers from larger, more prestigious houses trying to pinch him from Downton with lures of more money and plays to his vanity with dreams of serving at a finer house. He has never considered any of them; he's only ever considered leaving Downton once and that was to go to a considerably less prestigious house. One bought with new money in a man's vain attempt at respectability. He'd have only gone then to protect his favorite; to prepare her for her new life. Set up her house and help her to manage it. He had prepared himself to leave; reconciled himself to the fact that for her he would leave the only place that he ever truly called home. He thanks heaven above that he never had to.

No, he's nothing if not practiced, prepared. Except for this.

This fluttering in his chest; the soft thumping occasionally racing out of control like a steed charging toward the finish. This knotting of his stomach; a sinking feeling, though not necessarily unpleasant. He wonders if he is ill. If he is taking flu or perhaps overworking himself again. But he has two footmen and even though Molesley grates on his last nerve and he bristles at James' preening smugness, they are efficient, capable, and things are finally running smoothly again. Mr. Barrow is managing to stay out of trouble and now that Miss O'Brien is gone, he has not found anyone else with whom to conspire. Yet.

Lady Rose's coming out has been an unqualified success and he cannot remember a London season that he enjoyed more thoroughly. Even the trip to the seashore, though he at first felt defeated, he looks back at it with fondness. All had a good day and he has lived a little at Mrs. Hughes' gentle urging.

No, everything is running like a well-oiled machine.

Perhaps he _is_ ill. This must be the explanation. The heart flutters. The odd sensation in his belly. He looks at himself in the small mirror above his mantle. Checks his eyes for signs of illness. They are not red and there are no dark circles under them. He sticks his tongue out; sees no white spots or red ones for that matter. His cheeks are not flushed and he has not a fever, he thinks. He lifts a hand and touches the back of it to his forehead and it feels cool. But how can one judge one's own temperature that way? Perhaps he will ask Mrs. Hughes to be the judge. And there it is again. The flutter in his chest, the stomach twisting into a knot, and he notices his cheeks flush a peculiar shade of crimson. Maybe a visit to Dr. Clarkson will solve the mystery of this illness that plagues him. These strange feelings that come and go.

"Mr. Carson, I have tea ready if you'd care to join me," Mrs. Hughes calls as she enters his pantry. He turns around and suddenly his heart is beating in his ears. He feels a bit dizzy, off kilter. He'll need to tell Dr. Clarkson about this; add it to the list of symptoms that seems to be growing by the minute. He nods, smiles. Of course, tea will be nice; perhaps settle his stomach. "Are you all right?" she asks with concern. Her eyes narrow as if she is examining him.

"Yes, why?" he responds as she moves closer.

"Well, you haven't seemed yourself since we returned from London. If you're ill…."

"…..Well, I do feel a bit…" he begins but before he finishes he feels her hand pressed against his forehead.

"You aren't feverish," she states, drawing her hand away slowly and it comes to rest on his forearm, a gesture of concern.

"No, I suppose not," he says quietly realization dawning. She is standing very close and the fragrance of rosewater fills his senses. Her eyes are so very pretty and blue and remind him of the summer's sky that day he took her hand; the day he agreed to live a little. His eyes draw downward to her mouth, her lips. He thinks of what it might be like to feel them against his own. And the flutters return, the ringing in his ears, a flush across his cheeks.

"Mr. Carson, are you sure that you are all right?" she asks again, her fingers squeezing his arm firmly. "If you'd like me to ring Dr. Clarkson…"

"No, Mrs. Hughes," he assures her covering her hand with his own. "I think that I will be just fine." He wants to tell her that Dr. Clarkson has no remedy for what ails him. That there is no magical preparation for the chemist to compound. That only she has the cure.

**Thank you so very much for reading along. I appreciate all of you reviews, reblogs, etc. You all are the very best. The crème de la crème. If you are inclined, please leave me a review. They make my day. x**


	12. Knowledge

Day #12

A/N: This one is all Carson.

Mr. Carson distributes the morning post with practiced efficiency. Miss O'Brien has a letter from home. Likely from her sister who is expecting again. Another girl probably. This will make four in a row. Or is it five? He honestly cannot remember. Pities the woman's husband if his wife and their daughters are anything like the lady's maid. It is not as if Sarah O'Brien is all bad because she isn't. She is very good at her work and he respects that. But she can be vicious especially when she is huddled with Thomas and they are conspiring about one thing or another. There are letters for Anna, Mr. Bates, one for Thomas. Two for Mrs. Hughes. He notices the name Burns on the return address on one of them. Wonders why on earth the man would continue to write to a woman who has refused him. _Twice_. Perhaps it is to tell her that he has married again.

As he sits at the head of the table, he opens the letter from Duneagle. The one from his old friend the valet to the Marquis of Flintshire. He enjoys hearing from Mr. Alerdice whose letters are sometimes peppered with gossip from the Highlands or from wherever the family is stationed at the time. From Mr. Alerdice, Carson has learned of the inner workings of the foreign office, the indiscretions of officials both major and minor, and tidbits from the marriage of the Flintshires. He knows that Hugh MacClare, Laird of Duneagle, has a mistress whom he sees regularly when he is away from Duneagle and that it is an open secret. That no one cares except his wife who is a shrew and has driven him to it most people say. That she forced him from their marriage bed after she had done her duty and borne him three children. Carson bristles at the idea of infidelitiy. Though Susan Flintshire is a shrew, Carson cringes at the notion that anyone can reject their vows, throw over someone to whom they've made a commitment. Even though they had no understanding, the pain of Alice Neal is still very real to him.

There is no news of the Flintshires in this letter however, and Carson is secretly thankful. Though not above enjoying a bit of gossip himself – in fact, he and Mrs. Hughes often _discuss_ village matters or even matters of the house late at night over glasses of sherry– he does see the Flintshires when they visit every other year. Even though he finds Lady Flintshire exasperating and Laird Flintshire quite personable, he still would rather not have so much intimate knowledge of their marriage. Mr. Alerdice's letter contains the usual pleasantries, inquiries of well-being, and he asks after Mrs. Hughes. As Carson's eyes scan over the words, he falters. His hands grip the page just slightly tighter as his eyes reflexively narrow. His tongue darts out across his lips to moisten them as they've gone dry.

He cannot believe what he is reading. He glances to the woman at his right. She is reading her own letter. The one from _that_ famer. She's smiling slightly, has a pleased look on her face. The farmer has likely remarried Carson thinks. Hopefully, there will be no further letters from Joe Burns. He looks back to the letter from Mr. Alerdice. Scans it again to make sure that he read it correctly and the words are the same as he read them the first time. Anger rises within him. He wonders how many people know of this tawdry lie. For it must be a lie, this disparaging blight on his favorite's name. He knows of everything that goes on in this house. He looks to Mrs. Hughes again and this time she looks up at him. Asks him if the letter brings bad news. He fumbles a moment, wildly waves his hand, and makes a flimsy response.

"No, everything is fine, Mrs. Hughes. Just a letter from a friend," he says with a forced smile. "Mr. Alerdice. I think you remember him. The valet to Marquis of Flintshire? He inquired as to your health?"

"Of course," she replies over the rim of her teacup. "I do remember him well. That was quite kind of him."

For a moment, Carson wonders if he should ask her if she has a moment. If he should show her the letter and inquire as to her knowledge of this…this situation. After all, she too has knowledge of everything that goes on in this house that they preside over together. She has her spies, ehm, her maids, he thinks. And Anna? Mr. Alerdice writes that Anna helped to move the body. Surely, Anna would have told Mrs. Hughes about this if it were true. Wouldn't she?

He looks to Miss O'Brien and Thomas. They are founts of knowledge. He wonders if they know. Mr. Alerdice writes that it is a rumor but Carson knows that where there is smoke there is likely fire. He wouldn't put it past one of these two to have started it. They are always looking to start trouble.

His heart sinks that this rumor may be true. He knows that Lady Mary is high-spirited, capricious, and she had been dangerously flirting with Mr. Pamuk. And Carson has been around long enough to know what happens at dinner parties. He thinks back to the peculiar way that Daisy acted over the Turk's death. Yes, peculiar indeed. This is knowledge that he wishes he does not possess. A letter he wishes he had never received. Gossip about other families is enjoyable. Gossip about one's own is sickening. He is in a quandary as to what do.

"Mrs. Hughes, I need your opinion on something," he begins. "Might I see you in my pantry when you have a moment?"

**Thank you all for reading, reviewing, reblogging, etc. This one goes back in time but I hope that you enjoyed it. I just cannot believe that Carson did not believe that the rumors were not true nor that Mrs. H was ignorant of the matter. Although, I seriously doubt that he would have spilled the beans about Mary's indiscretion to Elsie (he probably didn't want to hear her give a speech about how the "'uppity minx' could ruin the reputation of the house" speech) I thought I'd write it where he sought her advice. I'd love to know what you think if you have the time. **


	13. Denial

Day #13

Denial

The weeks go by and Elsie watches him. Watches him as he sits next to her in church, touching her hand, his little finger entwined with hers or as he gives instructions to the workmen making the repairs on their cottage. He is so very proud of the home that they own and makes sure that she knows her opinion matters. If she was ever in denial of his sincerity about their retiring and leaving the Abbey behind, reality washes over her in these moments and sweeps those niggling doubts away.

They spend their half days here at the house on Brouncker Road, but today they have managed a whole day away from the big house. The workmen finished early and have returned to their business at the estate and they are finally and blissfully alone. A pear tree in the garden blossoms and they spread a blanket there; she makes them sandwiches, pours them milk, and they finish their little meal off with a piece of apple tart. The day is tranquil and they enjoy the spring breeze that swirls around them as the pear blossoms float around them like a spring snow. Her hair is looser and the breeze catches up wisps of it now and again. He sees the girl of her youth running carefree among the heather. He leans over to pluck a bloom from her hair and steals a kiss. She smiles against his lips, calls him a rascal. He is easier now, since their engagement. He has removed his tie and collar is open, his coat shrugged from his shoulders. She so very thankful that she's not been denied the chance to see and know the man behind the butler. She laughs at the notion that the others wouldn't believe he could be so carefree.

He packs away the basket, moves it aside, and draws her close. Feels something different about her, a softness that hasn't been there before. He notices that she leans into him more, easier now that the stays of her corset aren't digging into her. He wraps his arms around her and leans his head against hers, whispers into her ear that he can hardly believe that this is theirs. She wonders for a moment if he means only the house. But the gentle, warm kiss she feels against her neck tells her that he means more than just the house. That he means this thing that they share between them. This thing that he had denied them for so long.

She turns in his embrace and cups his cheek, presses herself against him. Finds herself wanting to do all sorts of things that a respectable woman ought not to want to do in broad daylight let alone on a blanket in her garden. But she has been denied all these years. Her eyes are pleading and her kiss insistent. He cannot resist the feeling of freedom on this spring day. The stone wall that surrounds the garden is tall and the gate is locked. There is no corset to separate them and she is warm and soft and he feels things that he hasn't felt in years. The softness of a woman's breast, a hip, her curves pressed against him. He can deny her no longer if she wants him. If she wants this.

His mouth is on hers and her hands are on the buttons of his shirt working them loose. They are to be married on Friday and they are married in their hearts anyway so what will it matter? She pushes his shirt open, smoothes her fingertips over the light scattering of hair there and drops a gentle loving kiss to the scar she finds on his collarbone.

But her mother's voice rings loud and then she hears her own. The words that she has spoken so often through the years to so many housemaids and she kisses him and she pulls back. Looks up to him and smiles, shakes her head, tucks her lip between her teeth. He smiles in understanding. She pulls his shirt back together, fastens the buttons, and thinks that she would like to help him with this after they are married.

Friday. After Friday, there will be no denial of what they both want.

**This prompt was so difficult. I had another partially written and scrapped it. It was just too sad to post prior to Valentine's Day. So. I would love to know what you think. Thank you to those of you who are still reading. Special thanks to those of you who reblog, review, and comment. Happy Valentine's Day to all tomorrow. x**


	14. Wind

Day #14

Wind

A/N: A silly little thing because I am determined to use this prompt word….and I thought why not have some Hughmore today…. It's late and I am sleepy so please excuse funky grammar and such. I'll correct it later. x

"It's very nice. Very nice indeed," Mrs. Patmore remarks as Elsie shows her around the house. This is her first visit to the Carsons' new home since they have moved in as a married couple. She's admired the kitchen, even helped to get the cupboard up to snuff, and passed some of the gently used utensils, pots and pans from the Abbey to her friends. Elsie has shown her the washroom and the bedrooms. Talked of the family with three children who will be arriving in a fortnight. Beryl cannot help but notice the blush rise on the housekeeper's face as they come to the last bedroom. The one Charles and Elsie occupy. The room is well appointed with a chifferobe for Charles things, a dressing table for her, a chest of drawers, a lovely antique bed and a exquisite counterpane draped across it. Beryl watches as Elsie's eyes flicker across the bed and then quickly away. Definitely, the blushing bride, the cooks chuckles to herself. But Elsie chats on, never rattles. Beryl is happy for her; happy for them. She sees the difference that the changing winds have brought.

xxxxx

"Well, Mr. Carson is very proud," Elsie replies with a soft smile. "And I must say that I am quite pleased." She pushes a teacup toward the cook and urges her to take a biscuit from the nearby plate. "It was his idea to put this little table and chairs out here in the garden. We sit out and have tea here on nice days. He put in a swing just there," she says proudly pointing to a swing opposite from the little table where the sit.

"Yes, it's very nice. I just may do this at my place," the cook replies. "And you say that Mrs. Baxter helped with the drapes and coverlets and such?" she asks, blowing a cooling breath across her teacup.

"Mmmm, yes, she was very kind to help. Though where she found the time, I'll never know," Elsie answers as she nibbles on a biscuit.

"So how did you come by the name?"

"Oh, you mean Pear Blossom Guesthouse? Well, it's the simplest thing really," Elsie insists. "Mr. Carson came up with it."

The cook spluttered her tea in disbelief. "Charles Carson came up with a flowery name like that? I had him for something more like 'Carson Cottage' or 'Brouncker Road Hotel'." Both women dissolve into a fit of giggles. Elsie admits that Mrs. Patmore has a point; her husband isn't the most poetic of men but she insists to the cook that he did indeed name their little venture without her assistance. "I don't believe it," the cook cries in laughter.

"Well, he did," Elsie joins in. "If you only knew," she mumbles under her breath, thinking that her friend has not heard her.

"Wha…what'd you say?" Mrs. Patmore turns suddenly serious.

"I said that he did name the place," Elsie replies, her countenance giving nothing away.

Waggling her finger at her friend and shaking her head, she'll not let Elsie off lightly. "No. After that."

"I not sure what you mean," Elsie maintains, hoping that Mrs. Patmore will decide to drop the matter. She looks down into her lap, she begins to wring her hands together, and realizing what she is doing she stops and clasps them tightly together.

"'If you only knew.' That's what you said," the cook insisted with a knowing look. Over the years, she had learned when her friend tries to hide something.

"You must never tell him," Elsie begins as a smile begins to tug the corners of her mouth up. "One day, before there was any furniture at the house and after the workmen had finished for the morning, Mr. Carson and I enjoyed a picnic under the pear tree just there." Elsie turns her gaze to the pear tree standing proudly in the corner of the garden, its limbs heavy with glittering green leaves. "Well, the wind picked up, more of a spring breeze really," she remembers with a smile. "And pear blossoms filled the air. 'Like spring snow' Mr. Carson said." Mrs. Patmore watches as the housekeeper's eyes crinkle along the edges with at the memory. Elsie pauses, tries in vain to suppress a bright smile.

"But that's not the whole story, is it?"

"Mrs. Patmore!" Mrs. Carson tried desperately to deflect the cook's attempt at wedeling more information from her. "No," the housekeeper softened, "it's not. One of the blossoms settled in my hair and Mr. Carson leaned in to pluck it out and…."

"….he stole a kiss didn't he?" Mrs. Patmore finished with unabashed glee. "Romantic devil."

"Yes," she replied quietly. "But, I assure you that he was a perfect gentleman."

She'd never tell her friend that she'd almost given into temptation under the old pear tree that day or that she had given into temptation there, on a blanket, with her husband not long after that day. As pear blossoms swirled around them and her wedding ring caught in the sunlight. No, that story was hers alone to treasure.

Thank you so much for reading. If you are inclined I would love to hear from you. Have a wonderful Valentine's weekend!


	15. Order

Day #16

**Order**

There are no butler books to keep, no wine ledgers to check, columns to add and check against one another. No deliveries to meet at the back door. Bottles of wine to catalogue away in the cellar of the Abbey. There are no orders to give to hallboys or footmen to train. No need to keep Mr. Barrow in check. No silver to polish or inspect for the minutest of scratches. No clocks to wind, though that is the business of the footmen or Mr. Barrow. No stairs to climb, plate to set, to measure precisely; dinners to preside over. No drinks to pour, glasses to refill. No coats to remove or to place on shoulders again. No galleries to walk, lights to switch on or off, locks to secure. No small singular beds in a small attic room. No more quick raps on the door by a housemaid in the early morning that starts it all over again. No, Charles' days are no longer ordered by the house he once served.

For Elsie there is no more sitting squinty-eyed over the linen rota or the household accounts ledger, the endless tallying of figures and reconciliation of them. Columns running together as the nights wear on. No walking of the galleries and the rooms before the family wakes so that she can search for errant specks of dust on mantelpieces, tables, and chandeliers. No adjusting menus at the last minute or the cataloguing of the store cupboards. No bending over the deep sinks of the scullery, teaching a young maid how to scrub a stain from a tablecloth.

She does not miss the lack of light in her sitting room or that the bathroom that she shared with a handful of other women. She does not miss that her job dictated that she wear the same two dark dresses day in and day out. She relishes that she can wear a bit of color now. She certainly does not miss the corset that pinched her in everyday of her life since she was a young housemaid; it was the first thing that she tossed out when she retired. No, Elsie's life is no longer ordered by the house in which she once served.

Instead, Charles and Elsie's days are ordered by the sun's soft rays peeking around the drapes in their bedroom. By Charles' hand curled around his wife's hip or his gentle kiss against her neck. Her hum of appreciate or smile at the tickling sensation his lips cause as they nip just there.

Their days are measured by breakfasts at the little table in the garden where posies grow in beds in nearby and ivy reaches out wildly from the stone wall. The roses, he has planted for her, bloom tall and proud. She is sure that they will show well at the annual flower show. He potters around in the garden shed while she tidies the house and when she is done, they will take a walk. Perhaps into the village, peruse the shops, visit with friends. Perhaps the walk through the village green, pass by the war memorial, pay their respects to William Mason. They wander farther down; visit the Philpot boy's marker.

The twilight that settles in peacefully orders their evenings. The washing up of the supper dishes and the drawing of a warm bath. The newspaper article that he reads to her while she repairs his socks or writes a letter to her sister. Their evenings are measured not by the ticking clock that sits on the mantle but in the gentle music from the wireless; and when she can convince him, his hand along her waist, their hands wrapped tightly together as they dance together in the quiet of their house.

And the nights, their nights are measured against the tender cool glow of moonlight. Ordered, by devotion and desire. Love and passion. By the meeting of man and woman. Unhurried. Unfettered by constraint.

**Thank you for reading. Reviews are very much appreciated. **


	16. Thanks

Thanks

The first emotion that washes over her is denial. Denial that the strong man who is in the next room over buttoning his shirt, fixing his tie, and slipping on his waistcoat and suitcoat, is quietly slipping into an abyss from which he cannot return. She hears Dr. Clarkson speaking but the words do not register yet. They will tomorrow perhaps or next week when her husband asks her the same question for the third time or forgets, again, where the tooth powder is. The words that Dr. Clarkson is speaking may as well be in a foreign tongue because she cannot make them out from the jumbled thoughts running wild through her mind.

She stares ahead, nods in agreement when the doctor makes suggestions. _Try to get some extra help_. Yes. _Perhaps a nurse to look in_. Yes. _Take time for yourself_. All right. Dr. Clarkson asks if she wants _him_ to know. If she wants her husband, the man whose broad shoulders held up a manor house for over thirty years, to know that his mind will fail him long before his body gives out. That he will be frustrated when he cannot remember the day of the week or what day cricket season begins. That he will, one day, forget the way to the village shoppes or why he wanted to go into the village at all. And that one day, he will look upon her face and not remember her name or who she is.

The doctor tells her that it will be easier if she allows him to do it; to break the bad news. She debates it, wonders if the doctor even knows what he is talking about. He is after all a country doctor, a retired military man who probably should be retired by now. However, reality sets in and she knows that his diagnosis is correct, knows that the man she loves and knows will no longer be the same. She politely declines, tells the good doctor that she will break the news herself. Perhaps on a quiet day, in their garden as they sit beneath the flowering pear and enjoy a nice sherry.

He asks her how she will cope. How she will handle the specter of seeing her husband through such a trial. Elsie Hughes lips draw into a sweet smile, as she sees her husband walk through into the doctor's private office. She offers her hand as he takes the chair beside her. She finds her smile met by one of her husband's. "With thanks," she says, eyes twinkling and then turning to Dr. Clarkson.

She will thank God above for every time that Charles remembers to butter her toast or bring her a perfect cup of tea at just the right time. Offer thanks every time her man calls her "Sweetheart" and pats her bottom as she walks past or reaches for her hand on their way to church. When he remembers the words to the hymns or when he remembers some obscure fact from Burkes about one of the families visiting at the Abbey. She will offer up a chorus of praise for every moment she spends with him, good, and bad and in between. For theirs has been a blessed life and for that she will offer thanks.

**Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated. Truly. This is blended with my original idea for the "denial" prompt but I decided to go another way for that one. Here, I touch again on a "Becky"-type theme, being blessed in the face of potential tragedy.  
**


	17. Look

Look

Perched on a stepladder, Elsie Hughes arranges drapery in one of the guesthouse's bedrooms. In a few weeks' time, their first paying guest checks in and she is determined that everything will be perfect, every detail precise. Theirs may not be the largest guesthouse in the county but it will be the tidiest and the most welcoming, she and Mr. Carson will make sure of that.

"Well, let us have a look," a deep voice from behind her beckons.

"I don't know how, but you've managed to make that sound a little risqué," she turns, smiling at the man who stands in the doorway.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes, I….I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…to…" Charles flusters before she puts him out of his misery.

"Don't fret Charles, I was only teasing," she laughs. "Come and see what you think. Miss Baxter did a fine job with these. She really is a talented seamstress," Elsie comments as she turns back to the drapes and runs her hand admiringly along a seam.

Charles moves toward her as Elsie chatters on about the quality of the fabric. About how she brokered a deal with the supplier as the material was left over from a job that he had done for Mrs. Crawley. Charles hums in agreement. She comments on the quality of Miss Baxter's workmanship; how, if she wished she could strike out on her own and open a shop, do very well for herself. Elsie sighs a moment, remarks that she always saw Anna as her successor, how she had groomed her to become housekeeper but that she believes Miss Baxter more suited for the role now. That Anna seems to like her position as lady's maid and that it allows her and Mr. Bates to travel together more often than not. Elsie natters on about how she believes that Miss Baxter may well prove a worthy successor when they retire and that it pleases her that the transition will be seamless.

"Well, what do you think? Do you like what you see?" Elsie asks with a smile as she half-turns back to Charles.

"Very much so," Charles answers, his voice deep, smoky. Elsie notices the rise and fall of his chest, the deep intake of breath, the way he licks his lips, the way he is looking at her hers.

"Charles….."

"Hmmm….."

"I asked what you thought of the drapes," she asks again, turning fully toward him, her height now even with his.

"What?" he asks, as he places his hands around her waist. He can feel her breath against his lips, the heat of the blush that has crept across her neck and face radiates off her.

"You didn't even look at them. Did you?" she asks, her face moving closer to his, their lips almost touching.

"No," he answers in a whisper. His heart beats wildly in his chest and he wonders if she can feel it. He wonders if, as she looks into his eyes, if she knows how desperately he wants her. Not just as companion, someone to grow old with, to mark time with; but someone to love, to hold and cherish. Someone with whom to join and with whom to become one. Someone to make him whole. Not just any someone, but her. Always her. Only her. Forever her.

"What is you want, Charles?" she finally asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"May I kiss you?" he asks. She smiles against his lips.

"I thought you'd never ask," she teases as she leans into him, kisses him. This the first kiss in their house. _Their house_. The house on Brouncker Road.

**Thank you for reading. I always appreciate reviews. Thank you for reading, reblogging, and reviewing. x**


	18. Summer

The Summer The Butler Leaves the Abbey – An Ode to Charles Carson

A/N: This one is vastly different. An experiment. A challenge.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, wildflowers dance in the meadow, roses open their blooms, and the fragrance of freshly mowed grasslands fill the air. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the eldest one is content in her station, content to mother her son, content to embrace her birthright. To become a caretaker of bricks and mortar, gutters and pipes. Heritage and family. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the middle one is happy, her child now her own, no longer a secret, a shame to be hidden. She is happy to be loved and to love in return. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the sun shines brightly down along the path to the house, the one registered in two names, the one on Brouncker Road. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, there is a spring to his step, a lightness to his mood, as he approaches, sees her waiting there. Waiting for him to come home to her, home to stay. When there are no more early mornings to separate them or late nights she waits up for him. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, she awaits him, standing at their doorstep, awaits the moment that he will join her. She welcomes him, takes him by the hand, leads him inside, closes the door. Kisses his cheek and brushes her fingertips along his hair. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, they are content, together in their days now, now that he is free. Free to embrace her, to take walks along the path to nowhere, the path to anywhere, the path to everywhere.

The summer that the Butler leaves the Abbey.

Thank you for reading. I don't know that this works but this stuck with me to challenge myself to do something different or to at least experiment with something different. If you are inclined I'd love to hear from you.


	19. Transformation

Transformation

As the singing continues, Lady Mary notices the butler and the housekeeper quietly slip back into the hall. She does not wonder where they've been. Assumes that they've been taking care of arrangements, making sure that things are taken care of, that people are taken care of. After all, that is what they do best; take care of people. Though she and the housekeeper may not always get on, she does admire that - the ability to be selfless even if she cannot be. As she looks out over the crowd, the deep baritone of Carson's voice rings out over all the others and he sounds…he _sounds_ positively jubilant. She searches for him and finds him standing next to Mrs. Hughes, who _looks_ positively triumphant. She's not seen the housekeeper smile as brilliantly since before Detective Vyner began snooping around the Abbey. Just then, Mrs. Hughes looks up to Mr. Carson, her eyes twinkling. Carson's lips turn up at the corners, a smile strains to break free, and then finally it bursts forth.

As the singing ends, Mary continues to watch them. Moving side by side, they make their way through the crowd of tenant farmers, gardeners, hallboys, and maids. She watches as they chat with friends and acquaintances and she hears their simultaneous laughter. His deep and rumbling, hers throaty with a little giggle in it. She sees Mrs. Hughes look again to Carson, then dip her head slightly down, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. Mary thinks that Carson must have forgotten himself as he places a hand on her elbow and steers her away, toward a far corner of the room past Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

They always stand in the corner of the room, after they've made their rounds, ensured everyone's comfort. They stand in the corner of the room and observe but Mary notices that this night, they are different, transformed. Standing close beside one another, they chat quietly. Mrs. Hughes smiles again and looks down at her shoes, touches the back of her hair with a hand as if to smooth it. Mary sees Carson smile again, tug at his waistcoat, a sign of his anxiousness that she recognizes. Carson and Mrs. Hughes turn toward one another just slightly, and Charles pulls his pocket watch from his pocket, flips open the top and closes it again. A whisper of something passes between them.

And Mary bears witness to the transformation. The thing that she has long suspected and heard whispers of has happened. That thing that she and Anna teased about in their youth and sometimes even now has come to fruition. Anna has always told her of their late nights talking, discussing matters of the house while nursing small glasses of sherry. How they move in unison throughout the downstairs corridors, their steps in perfect time; a dance of domesticity. Anna's told of their bickering and their arguing. Of how Mrs. Hughes has nudged, pushed, pulled, and dragged him out of the past and into the present. She's told Mary of how distressed Mr. Carson is when he is in disagreement with the housekeeper, how he is melancholy and irritable until they've patched things up. How the housekeeper used to have a withering glance and a sharp word of retort for his stinging words, but her silence and a sad expression move him to repentance now.

As Mrs. Hughes' hand comes to rest on the butler's arm, Mary's heart swells with pride. Of all the Christmas gifts that she is to receive, she will remember this moment as her one of her fondest. The transformation of butler and housekeeper from friends and colleagues to something so much more.

**Thank you for reading, for all of your reviews for these series of prompts. To guest reviewers to whom I cannot personally respond, thank you so very much. If you are inclined, I'd love to hear from you. x**


	20. Tremble

Tremble

She hands him the punch cup and he takes it, holds it with two hands, for he is trembling. He fears that he will falter, that the cup will fall to the floor. Shatter to into a million pieces, into sharp shards and bits so small that they will never find them all. He has laid his heart bare before her and does not know what he will do if she refuses him. That like the cup he holds, his heart is simultaneously strong yet fragile, and she holds his heart in the balance. He fears that if she doesn't want him, doesn't want the life he's offering, _he_ will shatter, _his_ life will be like splinters of glass scattered across a floor to be swept up and tossed away. He's told her that he will not press her, will not demand an answer, but his heart thunders wildly in his chest and he feels like a young lad anxious for his lass' acceptance.

Despite himself, he asks her, needs a confirmation, needs to right himself among the tumult of emotion. Then, before he knows it, she is moving closer, assuring him, confirming that she accepts him, that she always would have. As his heart thrums in his chest and tears pool in his eyes, his lip begins to tremble. Trembling now not out of the fear of rejection but out of pride and happiness, triumph and elation. To know that she has been waiting, standing beside him the entire time, waiting for him, moves him to a crescendo of emotion. The thrilling possibility of what is to come is almost too much. Then, he feels the steadying calm of her hand on his arm, her thumb sliding gently across burning a path warmth through his coat sleeve.

Suddenly his trembling turns to tranquility.

**Thank you so much for reading. If you are inclined, a note of review is always appreciated.**


	21. Sunset

Sunset

As the sunset settles across the horizon, painting the sky with glorious brushstrokes of cerulean, heliotrope, coral, and amber, they stand here with the others, watching. Almost numb with disbelief that this is happening again in their lifetime. She prayed then that they would never play witness again to this heartbreak. They have all been told that the world is supposed to be a more civilized place, a place of progress, a time when tragedy of this nature should be a thing of the past.

She looks out over platform, sees the scurrying of men into carriages, sees baggage being loaded, and women wiping their tears from their eyes. She hears the piercing cries of little babes, their mothers holding them close. Her head shakes slightly in disbelief, that this is all a horrible dream a nightmare. She feels his hand on her waist, gentle pressure pulling her toward him. He has found the family; they are just this way, he tells her. She knows that he is anxious, but he will not falter, will not give himself away because Lady Mary needs him to be strong, needs him to be her support as he always has been. And she needs him, especially now.

The young man in the olive uniform turns; he looks so much like his father, Elsie thinks. All blond hair and blue eyes, but she knows that he is his mother as well. Strong and cool, intelligent. Young George Crawley extends his hand to Charles, shakes it firmly. Charles wishes him well. Tells him things that his grandfather might, if he were here to do so. George bends, draws Elsie into an embrace, and kisses her cheek. His father's son, she thinks fondly. Kind, thoughtful, sincere. She tells him to take care of himself, to try to stay from harm's way. To write to his mother, to them if he has the time.

The station attendant calls for the passengers to board and the Carsons step back, allow the family to say their goodbyes. Charles keeps a steady eye on Lady Mary in case she should need him. Elsie tucks her hand inside her husband's elbow, keeps her eyes on him, in case he needs her.

The train filled with men pulls away into the distance.

The beautiful sunset over Downton belies the storm clouds that are gathering over Europe.

**Thank you for reading. I want to thank you all for your warm reception to these prompts. I've had a whale of a time stretching my legs as it were. If you are inclined, reviews are always appreciated.**


	22. Mad

Mad

Elsie Hughes watches as Charles Carson descends into what can only be described as a state of madness. She watches as he bustles about his pantry; invoices, books, and ledgers compiling them all on his desk in neat organized stacks. He frets over each one of the stacks, rifles through the invoices one by one, scribbles down notes, adds, and then re-adds the figures. Ticks off those that he has paid and those that are due, makes a note of them on a piece of paper; his list of items to check and things to do growing lengthier with each passing moment.

She watches from the doorway as he opens the wine ledger, watches his lips move as he adds the columns in his head, scratches down notes on the paper, and huffs in dismay. Finally, watching him work himself into a state, she can take it no more.

"Mr. Carson, what on earth has gotten you into this state?" she asks slight bemusement.

He looks up briefly from his work; his large hands splayed wide gesturing in frustration, "I must have everything laid out properly before we leave. I cannot rest easy if it isn't," he confesses.

Elsie smiles, which frustrates him all the more. He fails to see the humor, he tells her. He closes the wine ledger with a thud and places it to the side, rubs his hand across it. Immediately, she feels compassion for him, her husband-to-be. This man who has devoted his life to the house, to the family that occupies it. In two sure strides, she is beside him, her hand atop his.

"Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow is as ready as he'll ever be," she assures him with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

"You're sure? Because I am not so confident," he says a little sadly.

"Yes, you've trained him well and despite his shortcomings, he's a fine worker and I believe that Ms. Baxter will be able to keep him in check." Elsie moves her hand from his and brushes her fingers against his cheek. "I'll not have you worrying yourself when we are about to be married."

Charles leans into her embrace and wraps his hands around her waist pulling her close; he rests his cheek against her head. "You are right, Mrs. Hughes," he agrees, his voice deep and rumbling. "I cannot allow this to drive me mad."

"No," Elsie purrs against his chest. "I have other things in mind," she whispers bewitchingly.

**Ah, well. We are winding down. February is almost over. Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear from you and I promise to reply to your reviews if I haven't already. They do mean the world to me. Thank you all for being so supportive. **


	23. Thousand

**Thousand**

Charles Carson sits at his desk, working on the ledger, dragging his pen across rows of numbers, adding receipts, subtracting numbers, balancing accounts. Though the numbers are not as great and the receipts are not as numerous as those he dealt with at the Abbey, the guesthouse does well for them, and he hums a happy little tune as he calculates his figures. _Dashing away with the smoothing iron._ As he adds, subtracts, and reconciles, he reflects on the woman in the next room. He listens as she sings an old hymn, one with which he is familiar, has sung many times himself. A hymn of thankfulness and her lovely voice carries throughout the house and as she sings of faith and thankfulness, he thinks of how thankful he is for her. Of the thousands of ways that she makes his life better.

Always one for numbers he leaves the ledger for a moment and pulls a piece of scratch paper over onto where he is working. He begins to figure a new sum, to think back on how long they have known one another and he smiles; he has known her 9,131 days. He thinks of the first day he met her, the high-spirited Scottish lass with high cheekbones and a confident stride. He cannot say that he was smitten with her that day. No, not if he is honest with himself. Intrigued perhaps.

He makes a few more scratches onto the paper, crosses them out, and figures again until he has it right. On day 3,652, she asked him if he had ever thought about going another way. He remembers not exactly answering her. He was intrigued by her then, but could not bring himself to admit it. To tell her that he had indeed thought of another way, with her.

He adds again. On day 6,572 he pauses, he learned that she was ill. He lays the pen down and pinches the bridge of his nose tightly. He hears the her singing of thankfulness in the next room as she bustles about, preparing luncheon but the memories of that time come flooding back washing over him anew. The prospect of losing her afresh. The agony of her closing him out, of his not having any right to press her into telling him so that he could comfort her. Of not being able to walk with her into the village that day. Of being able to hold her hand while she waited for the news of whether or not she would live or die. He knew that he loved her then. On day 6,634.

He pauses, hears her signing her praises to the Almighty, thankful for all that He has bestowed and Charles smiles, picks up his pen, and figures again. Day 7,670. The day he finally plucked up the courage to hold her hand, when he finally expressed that he had more than a passing interest in her as more than a friend and confidant. He laughs to himself, now. _Old fool. Couldn't tell her that you loved her._ But he hoped that she knew, that she understood. Because she always understood him; could always read between the lines of what he could not say.

Day 8,217! He places an exclamation point by the day and writes next to it "Proposal." He caps the pen and places it down beside the paper. He smiles in satisfaction. _Finally did it old boy. Asked her to marry you._ He pushes away from his desk and goes in search of his wife. Finds her in their kitchen, scrubbing a pot. He reaches for her, wraps his hands around her waist, and leans into her soft form. Nuzzles into her neck, his breath warm on that spot just near her ear. He tells her just a few of the thousand things that makes her special to him. She smiles, asks him what's gotten into him. He says nothing, nothing at all. Tells her that if 9,000 more days pass between them or a thousand years pass between them that he could never be thankful enough for her. His wife.

**Thank you so much for reading. I do appreciate it. If you are inclined, I would love to hear from you.**

**Thank you so much for reading. I do appreciate it. If you are inclined, I would love to hear from you.**

**You can use the internet to calculate years into days. I have calculated it approximately.**

**The hymn Elsie was singing was Oh For A Thousand Tongues To Sing, By Reverend Charles Wesley. It was included in the The Church Hymnary for the Church of Scotland (1898).  
**


	24. Letters

Letters

A/N: As we draw to a close, I am now taking the prompts out of order, since there are more prompts than there are days of the month.

Elsie Hughes holds pen to paper, black lines scrolling and curving onto the white paper, as she writes. She is writing a series of letters, one has Her Ladyship's name on the envelope. It details Elsie's plans of retirement, of her thanks for the opportunity to serve as Downton's housekeeper for the past two decades. For the opportunity to oversee the running of such a fine house and that she will be happy to help select a replacement; she recommends Miss Baxter. Elsie has included a few of the details of her retirement with Mr. Carson, but nothing overtly personal. Those things are hers and hers alone. There are letters for others, a few friends who are housekeepers at other houses, and other friends scattered around the county. Then there are letters for those she loves, those she is close to, those who hold special places in her heart.

She wishes that he were not leaving, taking Sybil's child with him. The little girl whose infectious smile lights up the Abbey like the Christmas lights on the tree in the Great Hall and whose laughter fills the house where so much sadness has been the past few years. She is fond of the pair of them. Perhaps she is more than a little fond of the young man whose revolutionary ideas set the house on edge, drove Mr. Carson to distraction below stairs, and divided the family upstairs before he won them over. She smiles. Laughs a little to herself; perhaps Mr. Carson is right; maybe she does have a heart for the misfit, the downtrodden. Mr. Bates, Mr. Branson, Edna, even Charlie Grigg. She writes Mr. Branson, tells him things that his mother might tell him. To take care, remember to write to her, to send pictures of Miss Sybbie as she grows. She gives him words of encouragement, tells him that he must find his own way, that there is no shame in that, and that Lady Sybil would be proud of him. She debates on how to sign the letter, on whether to sign "Sincerely Yours" or something less formal. She settles on "Fondly." For she is fond of Tom. Quite fond indeed.

She writes another letter, not as long or as detailed. Not nearly as complex in its language but not too childish either. She writes to Miss Sybbie of how she, too traveled away from her homeland to a strange land, made new friends, and settled into a new home. She tells her that she will be all right. That she will make new friends and meet her American cousins and that a new land can be very exciting. She encourages Miss Sybbie to write to her and Mr. Carson. To practice her letters the way Mr. Carson taught her. She writes her a story or two of her mother, things that she hopes the girl will etch on her heart to take with her wherever she goes.

Then there is a letter for Anna, the one that she cannot help but somehow feel is hers. Perhaps not by birth, but hers just the same. Though they are not moving far, though she will still see Anna on Sundays and whenever they make time, she writes to her. Puts words on paper that she say cannot aloud. Words of adoration, dare she say of love, love a mother has for her child. Elsie tells her that if she had a daughter, she would wish her to be like Anna. To be kind and strong, intelligent and loyal. Elsie pauses a moment, lifts her pen, and thinks. Sometimes she feels that the young woman only comes to her in times of trouble. Then Elsie knows that has made it this way; it is the nature of her job, she should not appear overly partial, though she knows that she has done a poor job at that. She knows that she has shown Anna more affection than the others, but it is done now and she doesn't care; she cannot help the feelings that she has for the girl.

She puts the pen back to the paper, begins to write once again. She writes encouraging words, tells Anna that she is strong enough to face the slings and arrows of life. That she has faced so much already, more than any woman her age should. That she wishes she could take some of the burden from her, carry it. That if she could erase the pain she has been caused she would. Elsie assures her that children will come in due time, when Providence is ready. That Anna must hold fast to that. Tells her that she has recommended Miss Baxter to replace her as housekeeper not because Anna cannot do the job but because she hopes for Anna live and breathe beyond the walls of the Abbey. That a life in service is indeed a noble profession but one for her generation, no longer one for Anna's. That she wants Anna and Mr. Bates to leave service behind, wants them to buy their hotel and live their dream. That she wants to see them happy. That happiness is all a mother ever wishes for her children.

As Elsie Hughes finishes her letters, she stacks them neatly. The only one that she will deliver personally will be the one to Her Ladyship. The others will be distributed in the post and the two to Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie she will discreetly leave on his nightstand. She will tuck Anna's letter away in the young woman's coat pocket in hopes that she will not find it until she arrives home later that evening. Hopes that she will read it in private. Hopes that they will not speak of it; that only a glance, a look will be all the acknowledgement that passes between them.

**Thank you for reading. I appreciate it so much. Reviews are always appreciated. x**


	25. Future

Future

A/N: Several reviewers ask to read the reactions of Tom and Anna to Mrs. Hughes' letters from the previous chapter. If you've not read the previous chapter, you may wish to start there.

Proverbs 31: 25-28

She is clothed with strength and dignity;  
she can laugh at the days to come.  
She speaks with wisdom,  
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.  
She watches over the affairs of her household  
and does not eat the bread of idleness.  
Her children arise and call her blessed

Tom's day has been a long one what with the cleaning of his office, readying it for its new occupant. Hoping that Tom will change his mind, Mary has not been the most willing of tenants, but she has taken to the place like a duck to water and seems a natural behind the large oak desk, he thinks. He wonders what Matthew would think to find her there, pouring over maps, ledgers, and contracts; farmers and workmen bustling in and out of her office all day. Tom knows that he would be proud; knows that Sybil would be astonished. Tom shrugs out of his coat, tosses it across his bed and begins removing his cuff links, places them on the table beside his bed and sees two letters leaned against his wife's picture. He picks them up and notices that they have no address, no postmark, and that the envelopes are not sealed. One bears his name and the other the name of his daughter.

Tears fill his eyes as he reads. He has expected her to retire, to leave the Abbey behind, and make her home at the guesthouse on Brouncker Road. When he heard the news of their engagement, he went to her, kissed her cheek, wished her every happiness; he even shook Mr. Carson's hand, saw a smile wriggle free from the butler's lips. What he has not expected is her letter and the sentiment contained within its pages. She is wishing him happiness and Godspeed. Telling him that he is highly valued, that he deserves every good thing, and that he must go as far as luck and God will allow. That Lady Sybil will be with him wherever he settles and that Downton will always be his home no matter where he lays his head. She tells him that he should not close himself off to love, that he deserves to find someone worthy of him. That though she is leaving, retiring with Mr. Carson, she is but a letter away should he need anything. Through watery eyes, Tom reads the rest of the letter, folds, and tucks it away. Mrs. Hughes is the closest thing he has to a mother at Downton and he is thankful; he hopes that he can make her proud. Hopes that his future can bear out her hopes and dreams for him.

It is very late when the Bates arrive home at the end of the day. Her Ladyship hosted a dinner party and the guests departed late. Anna is very tired and wants nothing more than to go to bed as she removes her coat and hangs it on the peg near the door. She stops as she notices something falling from the coat's pocket; a letter floats to the floor, landing beside her feet. She bends, picks it up, and finds her name on the envelope. Immediately she recognizes the script.

"Anna, are you coming?" John calls from their bedroom.

"Yes, I'll be just a moment," she answers as she settles into a chair and begins reading.

She takes in every word from the woman who has been more a mother to her than own. The woman who has stood by her through every hardship when her own mother only stood by a man who tried to degrade her, who forced her from her home, from her mother and sister with his advances and his touches. With every word, Anna realizes the depth of Elsie Hughes love for her. The confession of her wish for a daughter like her, the desire to take her burdens from her. Anna thinks of her own mother staying with a man who touched her, gawked at her, and did her harm. How she stays with him to this day. Then she thinks of Mrs. Hughes who found her that night. How anguished she was, how she tended her, kept her secrets, comforted her. How she drew her close when John was imprisoned, held her to her bosom, cried with her, and told her that she was highly valued; Anna knows now that she was telling her that she loved her.

Pressing the letter to her heart Anna shakes her heart and feels a little guilty. Guilty for the times that she has only gone to this woman because she has been in times of crisis rather than just to talk. Gone to seek counsel rather than enjoy a spot of tea. She takes the letter and reads once again. She finds the charge, the only thing that Elsie demands of her. It is the thing that all mothers demand of their children, the only real thing that they ever demand, the only thing that they ever want for their children; the promise of a better life. It is in that moment, that Anna knows what she and her husband must do, what their path must be. To honor a mother's wishes.

The next morning Anna passes Mrs. Hughes in the servants' corridor. She does not mention the letter, does not want to embarrass the very private woman who poured her heart out on its pages. As they pass, Anna with tears in her eyes, reaches out and catches Mrs. Hughes' hand squeezing tightly. She smiles in acknowledgement and sees the look of love and approval on the older woman's face. A moment between mother and daughter sealed. Anna releases her hand and they continue on their way; each to their own futures, separate, but forever intertwined.

**Thank you so much for reading, for your reviews and reblogs on Tumblr. I would love to hear from you. One more day to go! x**


	26. Simple

Simple

A/N: This is the last Day of the February Chelsie Challenge and I thank each and every one of you for your support.

Though they've spent most of their lives working in a fine house with precious things, things of gold, silver, and platinum; things made of crystal and the finest china and things that are deemed rare and irreplaceable, it is the simple things of life that they appreciate now. They reflect upon the things that are truly rare that are truly to be treasured. The feeling of the grass that spreads beneath her feet in the summer, peaking up between her toes when she leaves her shoes in the cottage and walks outside in bare feet. He no longer chastises her for walking out with her feet bare, does not fret over her bruising them on a pebble or a stone, but instead he sometimes joins her now, enjoys the sunshine on his legs, the tops of his feet, and the sweet grass tickling his toes. He is a younger man, perhaps not in years, but in spirit. Because of her.

She relishes the days that he is content to sit with her in their swing, his arm around her, a book open, his voice caressing her ear as he reads. He reads to her of poetry, gardening, sport, and history; she has even convinced him to read the gothic novels she loves so well. They lend themselves to his sense of showmanship as he plays the parts for her. She treasures these moments; and other moments, leaned in to him, the book closed and he is sleeping, the little sounds he makes of which he is unaware. The way his eyebrows dance in the breeze of the summer's day; the way he tugs her close in his slumber.

The hands accustomed to polishing the finest of silver and handling the most delicate crystal, now touch and caress his wife. Hands that gently grasps hers, folding her small one into his as they walk through the field of purple wildflowers. It is his hand that holds the flannel used to mop her brow when she is ill; his hand that she reaches for in the darkest of the storm. It is his hand that combs through her hair as she drifts to sleep at night and his hand that she feels across her hip when she awakes with the morning light.

Her voice still delights him, the rolling and reeling melody of it. The way she says his name when she is angry with him reminds him of their days in service, the young housekeeper, the fiery Scotswoman who knocked him down a peg or two. Something no one else dared to do. The way she says his name when she is happy, the care she takes to roll the 'r', purring low and deep. Her voice is the last thing he hears at night, a gentle chorus of adoration and devotion she whispers to him, her eyes dancing. Her voice is the first thing that he wants to hear each morning, the sweet refrain of his beloved's song.

The simple things. Not silver or gold, platinum or crystal but love, contentment, and touch. The things people cannot buy. The simple things that make Charles and Elsie Carson rich beyond measure.

**Thank you for reading. Just a short one to finish up. I appreciate all of the reviews, Tumblr reblogs, guest reviews (Hi, all. Thank you so very much!). I hope that you have enjoyed the Chelsie Challenge as much as I have and I have enjoyed reading all of the other Chelsie authors. I would love to hear from you if you have the time. x**


	27. Breathless

Breathless

**A/N: Though the February Chelsie Challenge is over, I thought I might as well put one-shots and such there. **

It is not the first time that he has been breathless, has gasped for air, felt the tightening of his throat, the constriction of the muscles in his chest. He felt it that night in the dining room when poor Mr. Lang attempted to _play_ footman, to _help_ with dinner service, when all the others had gone off to war. The sharp pain in his arm, the tightness through his chest, the collar that was too tight, the silver tray, the sauce spilled on a daughter of the house, and before he knew it he was falling and helpless. Then he glanced up and she was there, taking his place. Stepped right in, giving orders like a field general fitted out in her dress uniform. Then she looked back, just briefly, caught his gaze just long enough, and he saw the concern beneath the calm and he saw her breath catch as well.

No, it is not the first time that he has been breathless. The afternoon that she and Mrs. Patmore left for the village, he wanted to run. To run to the village, to burst through into the good doctor's office to be with her, to hold her hand while they received the results. Together. He had all but asked her if she would allow him. And when she refused, pulled herself together, walked away with Mrs. Patmore, and left him standing there, alone, he felt the breath leave his body as if his lungs collapsed in on themselves before he remembered to breathe again. He only remembered breathing deeply again when they returned and Mrs. Patmore told him that she would be all right, that she would live, that she would not leave him alone standing there again.

The day at the seashore, he was breathless as he exhaled in pleasure as the cool ocean waves lapped at his bare feet. And then hearing him, she turned, and smiling radiantly she dared him. Dared him to join her, to live a little, to take her hand. If she had only known how she'd made him feel, how she'd knocked the wind out of him, how he did need to hold her hand to feel steady. Perhaps she did know and then he heard it. The little intake of breath, the little hitch in her voice, as they walked forward into the soft current, sand shifting beneath their feet. Together. Perhaps he had left her quite breathless.

And now, as he stands here awaiting her, dressed in his good grey suit, a cream rose pinned to his lapel, he is calm. He has told himself that he will not embarrass them, not embarrass her. That he will not cry as he did the night he proposed, when she steadied him, her hand gently smoothing across his arm. _It always seems that she steadies me_, he thinks. No, he'll be steady because they are all looking, watching and he wants everything to go perfectly, for her, for them. She deserves it. Then Reverend Travis stands, moves to the front of the church and it is his cue. And like a good soldier, he does as he has been told, as they have practiced; he moves to take his place. However, he turns, he cannot help himself, he wants to see her; they have kept her from him all morning, those silly women and their superstitions. He turns and there she is, lit from behind by the sunlight streaming in, and she is radiant, with a smile brighter than any star in God's creation and before he knows it, he is breathless again. The church is still quiet, the congregation not yet standing to welcome his bride, and the intake of his breath is deep, shuddering, and audible. He steadies himself, has to wait for her to come to him to hold her hand, to steady him. It is not long now. He knows that he is supposed to turn back, wait for her, but he finds that he cannot, cannot turn away from her as the congregation stands, as she approaches him. He wants to take it all in, breathe it all in. And she is here, her hand in his, never to be parted again.

**Thank you for reading. Just a little something (distraction) while I am writing the mammoth chapter for What's Past is Prologue. If you are inclined, I'd love to know what you think.**


	28. Confession

Confession

A/N: This is a little something based on a discussion on Tumblr about what might have happened when Carson told Mrs. Hughes about his time on the stage.

He makes sure that she has the first servings of what Daisy brings from the kitchen, puts the best piece of bread on her plate, and passes it to her. He hazards a small look in her direction and she looks at him, nods and smiles, and accepts his offering. She quietly thanks him and reaches to butter a piece of bread, places it on his plate. A simple act but in it she tells him that she has forgiven him. Again. He doesn't know why he does this thing. This penitential cycle in reverse. The penance first, the act of contrition, the offering. Simply expecting her to receive it without explanation, without the overt acknowledgment of his sin against her. And yet she does accept it, offers him absolution and it makes him feel worse. He needs to do this the right way. He needs to confess.

He leans over slightly, asks if she might have a moment after they finish supper. This thing that he has said to her is gnawing at him. The thing that she does not know about him, that he has kept a secret, makes what he said to her even worse because he is a hypocrite. He called her a woman of no standards. Well, not in those exact words, but might as well have done. He looks down at his food and he's gone off it. He folds his hands in his lap, clears his throat. She looks up at him. Sweetly asks if he is all right, if he needs anything. He does. He needs to confess, needs for her to know who and what he really is.

She meets him in his pantry, he closes the door and runs a hand through his hair. He's worried. Worried that she will think him a fool, less than honorable. How could she not after what he is about to tell her, after what he is about to confess. Only four others know. One is with the angels and two others have so many of their own problems that he doubts they even remember his shame.

She looks to him expectantly. Watches as he mops his brow with his handkerchief.

"Mr. Carson, if this is about earlier," she begins, "you needn't trouble yourself. You need not know when I visit Grantham House if it will lead to this much distress."

Oh, Christ. She thinks that he's still worried about that. He is but not really, he knows that her reputation is impeccable; that she has the most sterling reputation of any woman upstairs or down save Mrs. Crawley perhaps. He knows that she is only trying to help a fallen woman, a woman who was once one of hers, one of her girls. He should know that she cannot just turn off the fact that she cares for those who were in her charge, like he turns off the tap.

No, this is about him. Not her.

"No, Mrs. Hughes. This isn't about that," he says, before he stumbles again, fumbles for the words because it is about that. About what he said to her. "I mean to say, I am sorry for what I said. You are not a woman of low standards. You most certainly are not. And I had no right to say that because….I am afraid that I, I am…..I was a man of low standards once and I thought that you ought to know that."

She stares at him dumbfounded. Was it not a few years ago, that he stood in her sitting room looking like a lost puppy when she told him he was a man of honor and integrity? What does he mean?

"What are you speaking of Mr. Carson? I am afraid that I don't understand," she asks as she clasps her hands together tightly in front of her.

He motions for her to sit and she takes a seat in the chair that she always sits in when they share a sherry in the evenings. He sits across from her and he doesn't know where to begin except to simply come out with it.

"Mrs. Hughes, I have no right to have said that to you because it isn't true and because as I say, I was once a man of low standards. I should have told you before but, I was….am a hypocrite. I have hidden behind standards and rules for most of my life except for a time when I was a young man." He watches as she listens intently to him, her knuckles gone white because her fingers are clasped so tightly together. She wants to say something but she doesn't; she senses that he needs to finish this, that he needs to confess, needs absolution. "You see Mrs. Hughes, I once lived the life of a theatre performer, I sang and danced. Performed like a fool for strangers. Sang my bloody head off, told jokes, juggled pins. I moved from theatre to theatre, dance hall to dance hall. I was not the man I am now."

"Mr. Carson, I never imagined," she says, reaching out to rest her hand on his, which rests on his knee.

"No, I've kept that part of my life hidden. But before the war, my stage partner, a man named Charlie Grigg showed up asking for money, I put him up at the Grantham Arms and then he began asking for food and I stole, feed him out of the kitchen. He asked for money, but I didn't give him any. He came here to the house one day, threatening to blackmail me…." he continues before she interrupts.

"…..but no one mentioned….." she says as her fingertips squeeze his hand tightly.

"…..no, no one mentioned his coming here. But Anna, Mr. Bates, Lady Sybil, and Lord Grantham were there," he continues. "Lord Grantham paid him and told him never to return." He drops eyes; he cannot look at her. "I am ashamed Mrs. Hughes," he says quietly. "Ashamed of my past, ashamed of being a hypocrite, ashamed of the words that I spoke to you."

A long moment passes. Silence hangs heavy in the air around them before she speaks.

"Mr. Carson, a kind and wise man once asked me what the_point of living would be_ if we didn't let _life_ change us?," she says softly. He looks up to her and finds kind eyes. "It sounds like to me, that you learned that was not the life for you, but there is no reason to be ashamed of your past."

"But," he protests before he feels her hand squeeze his again gently.

"Now, no more of this Mr. Carson," she says firmly.

"But what I said to you….." he begins again. She hears the anguish in his voice, sees it in his eyes and she remembers the song he sang for her, of the maid stealing his heart away.

"I forgive you, Mr. Carson. I forgive you. I know that you didn't mean it," she says, soothing his hand.

He knows that she does forgive him. This time and every other time. He vows he will not push her away. He has confessed to her, confessed his sins past and present, and she has given her absolution.


	29. Kiss

Kiss

A/N: This is based on a prompt from Tumblr in which the prompt is to write a 300 word drabble on a prompt involving a kiss. itssoinevitable requested "Exhausted Parent Kiss" so this is for her. The drabble is exactly 300 words.

* * *

If there was one thing she hated, it was an atmosphere and he'd done his part to create it. Parents and their children clash, it is the natural order of things she reasoned. But as she readied for bed, her husband patiently awaiting her, she thought on all their children; all of them borrowed, but their children nonetheless.

Like all families, some children were easier than others like the sweet, gentle lad who'd fallen for the young kitchen maid. Others more difficult like the rebellious daughter who had fallen into shame and ruin. She'd tried to warn her off the dashing officer who'd wooed her with velvet lies and refused to claim their child.

There was the daughter who truly captured her heart. The delicate, fair girl she watched grow to womanhood; kind, devoted, and strong. How her heart has broken more times than she could count over things that if she could reverse time and take them back, she would.

Then there was the son. Tall, handsome and regal, confident. The perfect successor to his father. So bitter of spirit and angry, he was sharp thorn in his father's flesh. At odds again, the son challenging at every turn, an exchange of harsh words. The son's tongue striking like lightening, the father's voice booming like thunder causing all present to scatter from their presence. All but her. She was left to soothe their wounds, to nurse both her man and her son.

She slipped into bed next to her husband to find him fast asleep, exhausted from his battle today. She sighed, thinking of the children that they've shared together, the battles they've fought, won and lost, and the exhaustion etched across his face. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. A salve to heal his wounds.


	30. Glances

A/N: In response to the newest chelsie-prompt: "Glances." If you want to see Charles and Elsie from this time period see my tumblr. Special thanks for the pictures to hogwart's duo (chelsie-carson) on  
Tumblr. Please excuse any errors (I've been in a serious flare of facial, cranial nerve pain).

October 1943

The room is like a hundred others scattered across Europe. The smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and perfume hang heavy in the air and the above the general din a trumpet wails as a band plays requests and the girl singer belts out a jiving tune. Servicemen, young lads and many of them Yanks with pockets full of cash flashing it about, dressed in their kakis, their inhibitions lessened by a couple of pints of beer and the relief of having survived the latest battle, swing their girls round the dancefloor. And if they haven't a girl, it isn't long before they'll find one with whom to dance.

Couples are cuddled tightly together in a dark corner laughing, smiling at one another. A stolen kiss. Or two. Men have their arms draped possessively around the shoulders of their girls who are snuggled close to their sides. To feel the closeness of one another is surely a treat. For some they've been reunited with one another, while for others they've just met. And regardless of which, many couples will be going home together tonight, because life is short and death is certain in this world in which they live. To love and be loved is what is important above all of the carnage and destruction that permeates what the world's existence is now. To feel alive amid the death is exhilarating.

Lieutenant Commander Charles Carson has been in rooms like these, has had pints of beer, and sometimes something harder to drink. While on the front, he's seen things that no man should see; things that he can never escape, not even in his dreams. The alcohol numbs the hurt over the deaths of young soldiers he's seen. They've not yet lived their lives and in every one of them, he sees his own son who's stationed somewhere far away on another front. But he's never been drunk. He's too controlled for that. Too many people depend upon his sober judgment. He doesn't begrudge the men he observes as he glances around this dance hall, these men who are drinking a little too much as they attempt to escape the inescapable.

He's only ever danced with one woman in a dance hall like this one. He held her hand in his and pulled her against his body while burying his nose in her hair as he drank in the scent of her. He regretted the moment he had to leave her a week later. His lasting memory of scrambled sheets in a rented room's bed, of her standing at the door in her dressing gown, nude underneath, wishing him goodbye, and refusing to cry. She told him that she would not have his last memory of her looking a sniveling mess. It wouldn't be fair to him as he returned to the front. He's carried that picture of her bravery, of her steadiness, of the taste of her lips, and the warmth of her body with him through the long months since they were together.

He's not danced with a woman since then though several have shown interest. But he's made small talk with them. He's inquired about their followers or their husbands, but he's always held them at a respectable distance and he's never gone home with any of them. None of those women are a substitute for _her_. Oh, he's enjoyed talking with them and they've been perfectly nice. It is comforting to know that there are people who are possibly as lonesome for their loved one as he. But they all pale in comparison to _he_r. To the woman he left behind.

The band begins a slow tune and the dancefloor fills with couples who take the opportunity to hold one another close, to sway to a tune that promises of what will come when the war is over.* Charles reaches down, turns back the cuffs of his coat and shirt, and checks his watch. He's a little early but then he's always early, precise in everything that he does; a consequence of his profession he says, a surgeon holds the welfare of men in his hands. He can leave nothing to chance.

Charles scans the crowd and finds an open table. Just as he's making his way to claim it, he glances over and notices a woman that he recognizes. A striking woman with the elegance that the experience of middle age brings. A victory roll tucks deep auburn waves away from her face to reveal a pale peach skin, high chiseled cheekbones, sapphire eyes, and full, brick red lips. Only God himself could create such beauty, he thinks. And then he sees her legs and those stockings with a back seam that he imagines goes on for miles. She's full of hip and slim of waist; a vision in the dark green that she's wearing. She's dancing with a young soldier and making small talk. She offers a smile at something that the young officer's said and then, then she glances up and catches Charles gaze.

"May I cut in?" Charles asks, tapping the young soldier on the shoulder. He's cut through the crowd quickly. The gorgeous woman in the soldier's hold is a siren calling him into the shore.

"Of course, Lieutenant Commander," the young man answers as he gives a nod to his partner and then steps away.

"Thank you for rescuing me. My toes couldn't stand much more. These younger boys haven't been properly taught to dance without stepping on a lady's feet," she laughs.

"Then why did you dance with him?" Charles asks as he takes her hand in his and wraps his other hand around her waist.

"You know what they say about a man in uniform…. women can't resist them." She laughs a throaty little laugh and her eyes twinkle as she teases him. She relaxes into Charles's embrace. It's been such a long time since she's been held by a man of with his confidence, his steadiness – a man of substance.

"Is that so? But you don't strike me as the type of woman to be swayed by a uniform. Certainly not these young…. boys," he grumbles. They've danced before but not for a long while and he's missed her. He's jealous to see her dancing with another man, even if she is old enough to be that young officer's mother. He knows he's being unreasonable. She would never look at another man the way she looks at him.

"I only have eyes for one man in uniform, but you mustn't tell my husband." She's so very serious but the twinkle in her eye is infectious.

"Your secret is safe with me," he rumbles in her ear hot and low. "Tell me about this man of yours."

"My man in uniform is a lieutenant commander, very dashing."

"And this commander, what's he like?"

"Oh, he's very lovely. Tall and broad shouldered with a chest full of metals. Gorgeous hazel eyes and a delicious dimpled chin." Charles pulls her closer and she breathes in deeply. The scent of his cologne is heady and enticing, nothing like the loud cologne that the enlisted men douse themselves in.

"How long since you've seen him?"

"Eighteen months, but he's due any moment. He's been overdue for leave and I've been longing to see him." Her voice is ragged around the edges and Charles knows that he's hit upon a deep emotion, a raw spot and as the words tumble from her mouth he feels her hand tighten on his, her fingers creep up his shoulder toward his neck. It is evident that she craves human touch as much as he.

"He's due to arrive tonight?"

"I've been watching for him." She's moving closer to Charles and he can feel the tension between them increasing, the heat practically radiates off her as her eyes find his, locking them into the most intense dance of souls.

"I'm sure that he is longing to see you as well."

"Is he?" she asks, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she takes in a deep breath.

"He is." Charles pauses as he pulls her impossibly close. They are not young lovers and well past the point of making fools of themselves on the dance floor in front of everyone. "Elsie, I've missed you so much." He lifts her hand, tenderly kisses her wedding ring.

"Oh, Charles. It's been the longest eighteen months of my life. I've been so lonely without you," she admits as tears fill her eyes.

Elsie's fingers comb through the hair on Charles's neck. She's missed the simple things – the feel of the coarse, cropped hair at his neck, the luscious soft curl that that falls to her husband's forehead after he's showered and washed out the Brylcreem. She misses the feel of his hand in hers as they walk to church on Sunday mornings and listening to the radio in the afternoon.

Charles leans in and captures his wife's lips in a deep and lingering kiss and she melts into his embrace.

"Mr. Carson, right here in front all and sundry," Elsie teases as they pull away breathless.

"And what of it, Mrs. Carson?" Charles murmurs, his voice deep and full of desire. He's wants her so very badly, not to simply take her to bed and make love to her, but to hold her and talk with her. He has so many things to tell her and he wants to hear everything that she has to tell him.

"I've rented that little house for the fortnight. The one by the beach," she reminds him of the little cottage that they rented just before King and Country called him away. They nicknamed it The Love Nest because they didn't sink their feet into the sand or walk along the beach very often that weekend.

"You're ready to go then?" he asks though he knows the answer.

"Take me home," she gently demands as she tugs him off the dance floor.

* * *

*The song referenced here is "When the Lights Go On Again" and you can find it on YouTube.

Thank you for reading. A kind note of review is much appreciated.


	31. Rain: Joy Comes in the Morning

Rain: Joy Comes in the Morning

A/N: AU, but period correct. An Easter fic in response to the Chelsie-prompts: Rain

Please excuse any errors.

* * *

**Easter Eve, 1926**

Her husband has been called out tonight, awakened from a sound sleep. When one is called of God, his hours are not his alone. And neither are his wife's.

Though Charles is the one on whom much of the burden falls, the Sunday services and the ministering to of the families, Elsie manages things more privately. She chairs the village charity clothing drive and sits on committees, hosts teas, and takes tea around the parish. She's kept house, managed their books, prepared an endless series of meals, and raised their four daughters to be good Christian women. Most of all she supports her husband. Elsie Carson is her husband's unwavering support.

The kitchen floor is cool on her bare feet and she's forgone her dressing gown. Elsie pours a splash of milk into her teacup then drops one cube of sugar, then another and stirs. The motions are automatic and it is a good thing at this late hour.

She ought to be accustomed to her nights being disrupted. The knock at the door that has been replaced by the peal of the telephone's bell, but she's older now and so is he and it is increasingly more difficult to rouse and see Charles off.

She wonders if it isn't time for them to retire.

She knows that he will likely die in harness.

With her cup in hand, as she has many nights, she stands alone at the window of their sitting room looking out at the night sky wondering how the family is managing and when her husband will return. Charles has been called to attend to the Crawleys, to offer what comfort he can in a dire situation. The family holds a special place in his heart; he's known Lord Grantham most of his life and when the Dowager has asked for him, he's rushed to be by her side.

As Elsie watches, storm cloud gather, billowing in, dark and foreboding and the first winds begin to pick up. The roses in her front garden begin to dance and the sounds of rumbling thunder begin to roll and lightening angrily pierces the sky in the distance. As the first rain drops begin to fall and smatter against the window, she knows that the storm is coming closer and will be upon them soon. Her mind flits to her husband. Her stubborn husband who refused to take the car. He'd said he wanted to walk, that it wouldn't take five minutes and it would give him time to clear his head and prepare himself for what he might expect when he arrives at the Dower House.

* * *

There is a fierce storm raging outside and with every heavy, deep roll of thunder comes an instant flash of lightening that brightens the night sky and the cottage. Blinding sheets of rain pelt the house and beat against the roof and Elsie is reminded of the storms that rolled across the hills and plains of the farm when she was a girl. Of how her sister Becky would crawl into bed with her and cling to her until the storm passed. She wonders if storms still frighten Becky.

Elsie finds that as the storm rages outside, she cannot sleep. She's worried about Charles and concerned for the Crawleys. The Dowager has been ill for some time, but everyone thinks that she will pull out of it like she has so many times before.

As Elsie keeps the kettle warm, she busies herself preparing some sandwiches because she wonders if her man might be hungry when he returns home, but she also needs to stay busy. Idleness has never suited her.

Behind her she feels a tug on the hem of her nightdress. Sarah's youngest, sweet little one is staying the week with them and Elsie smiles as she turns and finds Charlotte, the granddaughter called after her Grandad, looking up at her with wide eyes.

"Granny, I'm afraid," the tiny voice calls up to her. Charlotte is dark haired and hazel-eyed like Charles and the apple of his eye.

"Oh, lamb, I'm sorry." Elsie reaches down and lifts the child into her arms. At four, Charlotte is the youngest of the six grandchildren and still slight enough that Elsie can hoist her up and onto her hip. "Did the storm wake you?" A small nod of the head gives Elsie the confirmation that she needs as Charlotte hugs her closer.

"Where is grandad?"

"Oh, he's had to go to the Dower House, my darling. He'll be back soon," Elsie promises as she kisses her granddaughter's forehead.

"Will he be all right in the storm?"

"Of course he will be," Elsie hears herself answer confidently though she has wondered the same thing. "I'll tell you what, why don't we get you one of grandad's custard tarts? He'll not mind a bit. You can sit with me until the storm passes."

Charlotte's face lights up and a smile tugs at her lips; Granny always knows just the thing to smooth things over she thinks.

* * *

**Easter Morning**

The storm passes as night turns into early morning and Easter dawns, the sun will be rising over the horizon soon. A gentle rain still falls outside as Charles walks up to the house and gently knocks on the door. A few moments pass and he fishes in his pocket for the key and inserts it into the lock, turns it, and walks inside. He is about to call for his wife, but his attention is draw to the two figures on the settee.

Charles smiles tenderly. Both of his girls are sleeping peacefully; Charlotte cuddled against Elsie, two empty dishes and forks on the table beside them. He tosses his rain soaked hat and coat to a nearby table and moves across to where they sleep. He bends to take Charlotte into his arms.

"Grandad?"

"Yes, sweetheart," Charles answers. His little one smiles and wraps her arms around his neck tightly as he carries her off to her bed. He tucks her beneath the blanket and places a kiss to her cheek.

Making his way back into the sitting room, Charles kneels in front of his sleeping wife. Tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear, he softly brushes the back of his fingertips down her jaw and his thumb across her lips. He marvels at this woman, his wife. She's everything that the writer of the Proverbs described and Charles is so very thankful for her.

"Elsie, my darling, let's go to bed. We've a few hours left before we have to be up," he says tenderly.

"Charlie." Her voice is hoarse, laced with fatigue and the lack of sleep. "What time is it?" she questions.

"Five," he answers as he rubs a hand across her shoulder, down her arm, and takes her hand. He rises to his feet and helps her from the settee.

As Elsie gets her bearings she takes a long look at her husband, sizes him up and she doesn't like what she sees. Doesn't like it at all.

"Charlie, you're soaked through. Why didn't you get someone from the house to drive you home?" she asks, irritation evident in her tone and her narrow-eyed expression.

"It's nothing," he assures her as they make their way to their bedroom. "I wanted the time to myself," he finishes as he closes the door behind them. He hears the huff of consternation from his wife, but doesn't respond. He knows that it'll likely do no good to argue. That she usually is right and he hates for them to be in disagreement.

"Was it peaceful?" Elsie reaches into the cupboard and finds a towel for Charles.

"It was," he answers as he tosses his shirt in the bin and pulls his vest over his head. "She told me that she was ready, wasn't frightened, and that she knew she would be reunited with those she loved. And a few she didn't." With a raised eyebrow, he chuckles a little at that bit. "She kept her faith private, but it was there all the same. I had a word of prayer and we spoke of how joy comes from sorrow. The family was with her." He drops his trousers and pushes them to the side, toes off his socks, and shimmies out of his pants. Elsie brings the towel to his shoulders and his chest and begins to wipe the left over rain dry. She moves to his arms and with a quick flick of her wrist motions for him to turn and she dries his back.

"Well, that's a blessing," she supplies as she drapes the towel around his waist from behind and gently leans into him, her cheek resting against his back. His hands secure the towel and then come to rest on hers as they are wrapped around his waist.

"I worried about you," she whispers, her breath warms on his back. "I hope that you are all right. I know that you are close to all of them."

"She lived a good life, Elsie. She had family who loved and respected her. Isn't that's all any of us can ask?" he replies. Elsie places a sweet kiss to his shoulder then makes her way to the wardrobe and retrieves her husband's pajamas.

As he dresses, she moves to the bed and slips under the covers. Charles follows soon after and they rest to face one another. Charles reaches for her, slides a hand along her thigh and then her hip, pulling her closer. Her fingers thread through his hair and they share a quiet moment.

_I love you_. The words tumble from them both and they smile. She knows what he's thinking because she thinks it too. There is nothing like life ebbing away to make you thankful for what you've been given.

"What are you going to say in service later?"

"I'll announce the Dowager's passing of course, but after service has concluded. But in my sermon I will mention Christ's death, burial, and resurrection. And I will mention that though we pass through the storms of life, there is joy in the morning."

* * *

Thank you for reading. A word of review would be lovely. For those of you who celebrate, Happy Easter.


	32. Whiskers

Whiskers

In answer to Chelsie-Prompts

Elsie wonders if it isn't time to make some changes.

As she sits at her dressing table, she slides the brush through her hair and with each stroke strands of silver become more noticeable. She wonders if it isn't time for a new style, after all, soon there will be no real need to twist her hair into tight braids. No need to look every inch the stern housekeeper.

She hasn't reprimanded a footman or a maid in quite some time now that she only has a few foot soldiers rather than an army to command. Oh she can still narrow her eyes and strike fear into a young maid without so much as a word. A withering glance is all it takes these days rather than an imperious edge to her voice. Even if her words are admonishing, her tone is commanding but kind.

Laying the hairbrush aside, Elsie peers into the looking glass and examines herself. Pursing her lips, tiny feathered lines appear and when she draws her eyes into a tight gaze, lines rise to the surface and spread put like an open fan at the corner of her eyes. Looking down at her hands, she finds small brown patches, and the joint of her right thumb is angry and swollen. All of this reminds her that she's getting older, that she doesn't have as many years ahead of her as she has behind her.

But she knows how lucky she is. How lucky they are that they are together and happy. That not only is her husband a friend and companion, but a man of passion as well. They may be in the autumn of their lives, but the way that Charles looks at her, the way that he touches her, makes her feel the heady flush of spring when life is renewed and flourishing.

And just as the spring sweeps away the last dregs of winter, Elsie considers this new and blossoming season in her life. Thoughts of their happiness, of an intimacy that she never imagined she could have at her age, brings a smile to her lips, a flush to her cheeks, and a tense, tightening heat between her thighs.

Looking in the glass, she imagines a softer hairstyle; perhaps a Marcel Wave like her Ladyship. Anna had been so kind as to replicate the style on her wedding day and Charles had told her how becoming it was. And, after all, she did feel decadent, what with her hair styled in the new fashion, her gifted coat, and the gold ring Charles slipped onto her finger.

She's a married woman now and perhaps it is time to put the housekeeper away for good. Instead of tightly wound curls and rigid lines, Elsie ponders on whether to let her curves show.

She has dragged her husband into the modern world, perhaps she will discard her corset and change her hair.

Perhaps. One day.

But for now she _is_ still the housekeeper and so she winds her hair into the intricate plaits and pins them into place.

She shifts in her chair and reaches for her garters and stockings. She gathers the stocking and places her foot in, then slides the thick black cotton stocking up her leg, under the plain black garter, and ties the lace of the garter. She's only ever once worn the nice, silk stockings that the upstairs ladies wear and when she remembers how gently her husband slipped the off and planted tiny kisses along the way she can feel the heat rise in her cheeks.

When she's about to wrap her corset around her, Elsie wonders if she will ever be able to wrap it in some tissue paper and place it in a box high on the shelf in the wardrobe. But she's battled with infernal thing for so long that they have both tamed one another into submission. Her corset is such a part of her, part of the style and show of authority that she enjoys, and she knows that she'd feel naked, exposed without it and not quite herself. After all she is a woman of standards. And the look in her husband's eye when she shimmies out of her dress at the end of the day, when he sees the rise and fall of her bosom just over the top of her corset, is almost enough to make her forget about the new underthings that she's seen in Mrs. Patmore's catalogs.

"Damn." She hears the curse fall from her husband's lips only to be followed by a deep sigh.

"Charlie, what on earth is wrong?" she calls from the bedroom as she rushes dressed only in her shift and stockings down the hall to the bathroom. She knows that he's upset and the curse does not come naturally, for her man is not accustomed to such language.

"It's nothing."

He's a terrible liar and with a face half-covered with shaving soap and his straight razor tossed on the edge of the sink, Elsie watches her bare chested husband stand before the bathroom mirror furiously rubbing his right hand.

"It's not nothing. You've cut yourself." She reaches for the edge of the towel that hangs from his shoulders and wipes the blood away. She's wondered when this day would come. When he would not be able to tend to his whiskers because of a tremor, an unsteady hand.

"I said that I'm fine." Each word is a sentence and his voice is steady yet his eyes say something else. A sheen of tears covers them, but he is determined not to let them fall.

"Here, give me the razor," she says kindly.

"Why?" Defiance in one harsh syllable. He is not a child nor an invalid and he is determined not to have her pity him.

"I will do it."

He simply stares at her, his shoulders lowered, and his hands now griping the sink.

"You will either grow your whiskers or allow me to help you." Her tone sounds much harsher than she intends, but she cannot understand why after a year of marriage he still refuses to allow her into certain aspects of his life. Her hand slides lovingly from his shoulder and down his arm, but he does not relent.

When he says nothing further, she turns to leaves him to it. Her husband is a stubborn man and she knows that she cannot force him to accept her help. Just as her back is to him and she's taken a step away from him, she feels his hand gently grab her wrist as he turns her around. She sees the pain and fear in his eyes. Fear of being helpless, of being useless to himself and to her. Silently, he presses the closed razor into her palm and closes her fingers around it. She rewards his confidence in her with a gentle smile.

Elsie leads her husband into the kitchen and Charles pulls a chair away from the table and sits down. While his wife fetches a small basin from the counter and fills it with water, Charles watches her as she moves gracefully around their kitchen. The fact that his wife is only in her shift, knickers, and stockings isn't lost on him. He's told her that she is beautiful, that she pleases him in every way. He loves to view her from this vantage point as the flare of her hips and the soft curve of her bottom call to him.

"Well, now," she says as she places the small basin on the table and takes the razor in one hand. "Show me."

Charles places his hand over hers and she feels the trembling that has so upset him this morning. He withdraws his hand quickly before she can comfort him, before she can cover it with her own, but he isn't angry at himself, just a little sad. Instead, he looks at her with kind, thankful eyes.

"Wrap your fingers wrapped around the shank like this," he instructs as he uses his left hand to press her fingers around the razor's shank. "And your little finger goes here."

"Like this?" she asks wrapping her little finger on the tang.

"Exactly," he answers proudly. "Now, hold the blade at a thirty-degree angle and apply gentle pressure, you needn't press firmly, pull the skin tightly, and sweep downward. Start just below my ear." He sounds every inch the teacher, the butler training one of his staff in the precision of some task or another. That he has entrusted this most intimate task to her means that the final walls between them are crumbling, that he trusts her implicitly in all things.

"Let's give it a go then. Turn your head a bit." With a fierce gaze of concentration and drawing her lip between her teeth, Elsie turns to the task at hand. As she leans over and with her free hand pulls the skin at his sideburns taught, she sets the razor against his cheek and sweeps down his jaw. For a moment the only sound in the room is the scrape of steel against protesting whiskers.

"I believe that you've done this before," Charles half-teasingly remarks when he discovers his wife's natural ability as a barber.

"Mr. Carson, a woman must have some secrets." She laughs as she draws the blade across the towel that still hangs from his shoulders. She wipes it clean and her free hand presses into the flesh of his jaw once more

"Hmmphf."

"Oh hush now. Let me get this bit here."

She is standing so very close to him, her hands on his face, her own face close to his, and she is dressed only in her underthings. The linen shift that clings in all the right places, provides the most pleasing view of her bosom as her breasts strain against the thin fabric and he cannot help but to stare. She was so very worried before they set the wedding date that her body would be disappointing, but he hasn't been able to get enough of the sight of her since. As his eyes trail downward, the midnight black of her garters and stockings falling sharp against the creamy alabaster of her legs is most becoming. The juxtaposition of light and dark, the demarcation of what is forbidden and unforbidden causes a most pleasantly uncomfortable tightening in his trousers.

"What?" He hears himself answer sharply. He's not paid attention to one thing that she's said. He's so distracted by her, by her beauty, by her offering herself to him in this way, for while he is the one humbled, so is she. Marriage is a meeting of servant minds and hearts, giving and trusting one another.

"Nevermind," she sighs quietly.

Suddenly, Charles's left hand begins to wander and finds its way to Elsie's right leg. His fingers stroke across the stocking and then up to the back of her knee and his fingers delicately edge around the frill of the garter.

"Charlie, you are being very distracting," his wife responds as she pulls the blade away from his skin. "If you don't want me to nick your face, you must behave." Though her words are admonishing, but her tone is teasing. There is a hint of a girlish giggle there.

Another clean, downward stroke fills the blade with shave soap and tiny whiskers. Another pass and then another and her work is done. Suddenly she not only hears, but feels her husband draw in a sharp breath of air and groan. Pulling back, she looks at him with puzzlement. She sets the razor aside on the table and taking the towel from around his shoulders, Elsie gently wipes the remaining streaks of soap from her husband's face. She smoothes down his cheeks, across, his chin, and down his throat.

"Did I hurt you? I don't see…."

"No. You didn't hurt me," Charles interrupts, opening his closed eyes slowly. He wonders if his wife really has no idea what effect that she has on him.

Suddenly Elsie feels her husband's hand gently take the towel from hers and set it aside. His intent has become all too clear. He is pulling her closer, his hands moving slowly, furtively up her thighs.

"Charlie." His name comes in breathless tones and all she hears in return is a heavy sigh as she feels his hands slip over the curve of her bottom as he presses his fingers gently into the flesh of her back. His breath is warm upon her belly where he's pulled her into a deep embrace.

"Thank you." She feels his words more than hears them.

"There's no need to thank me for…"

"Not just for this, Elsie" he corrects her quietly. She must know that he means for everything, for being on his side, for marrying him, for loving him, for being everything that she promised before man and God. Whatever boyhood infatuation he'd felt for Alice Neal was nothing compared to the infinite well of love he feels for Elsie. If the sun refuses to rise in the East, his world will still turn as long as she is in it.

"Tell me how much longer."

"You know very well how much longer," she answers quietly as her fingers card through his hair. And then, then, he looks up, and their eyes meet. His, dark, brooding, painted with desire for her. Hers, wide, loving, answering.

"Eight days, Charlie. Eight days and our days will be all our own," she answers.

"But we do have this morning on our own," he reminds her, a boyish grin plays about his lips. She loves, covets, this side of him. This Charles Carson that is hers and hers alone. He is her Charlie, the butler retired. Charlie is her steadfast companion and her lover. All at once strong and gentle, loving and attentive, petitioning and surrendering. She cannot imagine life without him.

"Well, then, why don't we enjoy it?" It isn't so much a question as a statement as she moves from his embrace and takes his hand. She's leading him to their sanctuary and he craves this side of her. The Elsie Carson that is all his and his alone. She is his Elsie and Mrs. Hughes is long forgotten. Elsie is his constant stalwart in stormy seas, his confidante, his lover. She is strong and gentle, sacrificing. He refuses to imagine a life without her.

**Thank you for reading. I know that this is similar to Aussiegirl41's fic published earlier, but I think that we all are thinking along the same lines. I've been working on this since the prompt first appeared, but it has been slow in coming and I am not completely satisfied. However, if you've the inclination a word of review would be most appreciated.**


	33. The Shed

_'Twas on a Monday morning  
When I beheld my darling,  
She looked so neat and charming  
In ev'ry high degree.  
She looked so neat and nimble, O,_

_A-washing of her linen, O,  
Dashing away with the smoothing iron,  
She stole my heart away._

"And just who is this maid that stole your heart away?"

Charles cheeks flush crimson as he quiets his rather rousing version of the old work song and turns from the project that he's working on to face his wife. The bright summer sunlight illuminates her in silhouette and she's leaned into the doorway of the shed, her apron wrapped around her waist and her arms folded across her body. As Charles's eyes struggle to adjust from the dimness of the shed to bright light outside it, he recognizes that Elsie is half bemused and half irritated. Then the penny drops and Charles realizes that he's missed the prescribed time for lunch and he is the one who makes such a production of sitting down to the table on time.

"Uh, em, Elsie, I'm sorry," he offers contritely as he folds the polishing flannel he's been using and sets it aside on the nearby work table. He folds one hand into the other as he twists one fist into the palm of the other hand. "I lost track of the time."

"So I see." Then she smiles. He knows that all is well. His wife is a forgiving woman and after all, he isn't so very late for lunch.

"It looks quite nice," she observes with a nod of her head. "I think that young Jack will be very pleased."

Charles lips draw into a self-satisfied grin and his chest puffs out a smidge as he preens like a peacock. He's a proud man after all and when his wife compliments him, it fills him with pride.

"I hope so." And then worry washes over his face. He nervously licks his lips and his eyes drop to study his shoes before his looks back up to his wife. "You don't think that anyone will be able to tell that it's second-hand do you?" Elsie notices that her husband, so confident in most matters, still needs her approval in others.

"Charlie, you've done a fine job. The paint is very nice and you've chosen Jack's favorite shade of blue. And if you polish the shiny bits any more, you'll rub the shine right off it," Elsie soothes, with a hint of a tease, as she moves from the doorway and into the shed toward where her husband stands.

At this her husband rewards her confidence in him with a grin and she rewards him with a sweet kiss.

"Come on now, put your polishing flannel away for a while and let's have lunch." Elsie makes to turn, but suddenly feels her husband's hands firmly about her hips. She looks up to him with questioning eyes, but then feels him pulling her into a tight embrace.

"We are not going anywhere…. just yet." Charles lips move against her cheek and his breath is hot upon her ear.

"But Charlie, our lunch…." Elsie protests.

"Lunch can wait," he whispers low as he releases her and as he reaches for her hand, she notices for the first time in a week that his hand is trembling. She wonders what he is on about, that while the tremor will not be cured, it is more evident when Charles is under stress.

He tugs her over to a darkened corner of the shed, well out of sight of the open door. He's gently but firmly pushed her against the wall, his face only inches from hers, his fingers caressing the small of her back.

"I'm flattered, Charlie, but aren't we a little old to be sneaking out to the shed?" she giggles.

"Elsie, why is _that woman_ walking down our front path?" Charles asks, ignoring his wife's flirtations.

"What woman?" Elsie asks in return, narrowing her eyes, her patience growing thin.

Charles quickly nods his head toward the door and his brows twist into an inverted arch of consternation. His wife should know who _that woman_ is for there is only one woman in all of Downton village who has exasperated Charles enough to earn that title. Charles becomes more agitated and whispers into Elsie's ear.

"Mrs. Wiggins." He emphasizes every syllable as if they are a word unto themselves. A flutter of a smile crosses Elsie's face as she tries to bite it back. She's been amused at the tales her husband has regaled her with of the standoff between him and the post mistress at the village council meetings. Of how they have been at loggerheads since he joined the council months ago.

"I'm sure I don't know why she's here," Elsie admits as she stretches to look around her husband's shoulder to find Mrs. Wiggins swiftly approaching the front door of their cottage. "Perhaps she's come to make amends."

"I highly doubt that," Charles huffs.

They fall silent for several moments in the vain hope that Mrs. Wiggins will be on her way when no one answers her knock at the door. However, much to their dismay they soon here her voice echoing through the garden. Charles's heart begins to race and even through her corset Elsie feels the trembling his hand intensify.

"Surely, she'll leave in a moment," Elsie tries to convince her panicked husband and perhaps herself most of all. Charles's lips are drawn into a slim line and worry is written in his eyes. Elsie thinks back on the days when she and Mrs. Patmore were little more than tolerable of one another and on their worst days great adversaries. Flickering memories of the dread she faced when she approached the cook to discuss store cupboards, menus, and recipes causes a swell of sympathy for the man standing slump-shouldered in front of her now.

"You mustn't let Mrs. Wiggins defeat you Charlie," she soothes while slipping her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. "Everyone knows that she's a dour and prickly woman."

"But you've said that I am an old curmudgeon," he smirks.

"Well," she smiles as fingertips find purchase in his hair. "That you can be…sometimes…. but not today," she admits as she tugs him down for a kiss.

The Carsons suddenly find themselves caught up in one another, lips eager, his hands roaming her hips and bottom, and hers threading through his unruly hair. Terms of endearment and whispers of love fall gently on warm skin and Charles smiles against the pink flesh of his wife's neck when she giggles; his whiskers have tickled her there. Capturing her lips in a searing kiss, in his exuberance Charles pulls his wife impossibly close leaving no doubt about his future intentions. As they shift against the nearby cupboard, Elsie stumbles over a plant pot and against the cupboard. Plant pots and garden tools spill to the floor and the Carsons cannot help but snigger a little and Charles assures his wife that the cleanup of the mess can wait as he reclaims her lips.

"Do you still think that we are too old to steal away to the shed?" he asks between kisses.

"I am becoming less and less convinced," she answers as she slips her hands up his chest.

They've totally forgotten about Mrs. Wiggins until….

"Well, I never," the postmistress indigently gasps from the doorway of the shed. Mrs. Wiggins stands before them with her arms crossed tightly across her chest and her face screwed up in disgust.

The Carsons turn to face her and Charles's mouth drops open with surprise, his face red with embarrassment. He is at a loss for words. His present state will only give _that woman_ leverage against him. Who knows what she will say to the women in town. How she will make him out to be a man of impulse and no dignity. A laughing stock. Fodder for gossip.

His wife is considerably less ruffled. Elsie fixes Mrs. Wiggins with a sharp, withering glare. Her piercing blue eyes, slanted, boring deep into the post mistress's disgusted face. Elsie will not allow the woman to torment her husband any further; she'll put a stop to this here and now. She'll squelch any gossip before it starts.

"No, I suppose you have never, Mrs. Wiggins," Elsie retorts sharply. "That would account for Mr. Wiggins' grumpy nature."

"Humprh."

"Perhaps you shouldn't nosy around people's homes in the future. I think that you should be on your way now," Elsie finishes in her best housekeeper voice.

Mrs. Wiggins turns on her heel and walks briskly down the path back toward the village. Charles turns back toward his with a look of awe. It's been quite some time since he's seen the housekeeper. She doesn't appear often anymore, not since they've reached an equilibrium in their retirement years. Elsie grabs her husband's hand and determinedly begins to lead him out of the shed.

"Where are we going?" he asks sheepishly. "Shouldn't we sort the broken pots and the tools."

"They will keep," she replies and they wind their way through the front garden and toward the cottage.

"Well, I suppose that we should enjoy lunch before it completely spoils."

"Lunch will keep, Charlie," Elsie purrs as they make their way into the cottage and past the kitchen to the bedroom.

Never let it be said that anyone gets too old to steal away to a garden shed…

* * *

Thank you for reading. This was in response to the latest Chelsie-Prompt: Bicycle; shed. I hope that you enjoyed it. If you are inclined, I would love to know what you think. I am back into semi-retirement now. xo


	34. Linen

For the Chelsie Prompt: Linen

Late July 1926

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Sunlight tries desperately to creep past the thick canopy of leaves that cover the old oak tree that stands guard just outside their bedroom window. Little by little, as the tick-tock of Charles's reliable old bedside clock marks the hours of the morning, the room is bathed in the first blushes of a new dawn.

Charles wakes to find the bed linens pulled from their sharp corners and as he rubs a hand through his hair and brushes it back, he smiles; a roguish little grin that he only allows Elsie to see. To think of what they get up to in this room and how he once fussed over sharp corners when now the sight of tangled linens is one of his favorite sights, makes him chuckle. Today, it means that she is home. With him. At long last.

She's not been home a full day, yet. This was _her_ last season in London. Without _him_. After so many years of him being the one who'd left Downton and her behind, he has been the one left alone in an empty house this time. Logically, Charles knew that she had to go, that it was her job. That if Mrs. Molesley was to succeed her, Elsie needed to show her the ropes: how to open the house, take inventory, and close it when the family was ready to depart. But knowing the facts still did not lessen the fact the he's missed her terribly. He's visited. Three times for a week each visit but returned home afterwards always claiming that he needed to stay behind to tend the house on Brouncker Road, to ensure that everything was operating up to standard. But Elsie knew the real reason. Charles felt redundant. He had taught Mr. Barrow everything he needed to know and Thomas had to learn to sink or swim on his own. He didn't need the elder statesman hovering over his shoulder; Mr. Barrow was the butler now.

These last days of July have been warm and dry. Even with the windows thrown open, the house is warm. Charles's pajama shirt still lies at the bottom of the bed in a crumpled tangle, where it was tossed haphazzardly sometime in the night when the stagnant heat of the house became too oppressive. Elsie wears a new nightgown she bought while in London. It's nothing like the ones that she wears in the winter, in those cold months when the extra fabric is needed to keep her ankles warm.

Carefully, Charles inches closer to her and but she does not stir and it is then that he's certain that she is still sleeping. Her breathing is smooth and peaceful and she's making the faintest sound of a snore that he knows she'd deny if he mentions it to her. He smiles at the thought of what she'd say if he did.

Sometime during the night Elsie turned, shifted from lying in her husband's arms, her head on his chest, and now she lies on her side turned away from him. Her left is hand tucked under her pillow and her right hand spread onto the mattress beside her. The crisp linen sheet has slipped from her shoulder and rests about her hip. She doesn't seem to mind. The bed linens are bunched up between them and as Charles carefully straightens them, smoothes the crumpled barrier between he and his wife, he slips his hands beneath the crisp white sheet and his fingertips find purchase along her plain of her stomach. His lips caress the curve of her bare shoulder and he savors the feel of her, the simplicity of her being there.

Soon, Charles's hands begin to roam, fingertips begin to caress from her stomach to her hip and bottom, and then thigh, the cotton of her nightgown warm and smooth against his palm. His kisses grow more frequent; tiny kisses trailing along her shoulder, back, and the slope of her neck.

Elsie knows that he's teasing her with his breath hot against her bare flesh and his barely-there kisses. She gives in to this little game of his, allows him the satisfaction of rousing her from her slumber.

Truth is, she's been awake since she felt the mattress dip beside her, since she felt him stretch across her body, and the straightening of the bed linens that were in such disarray from the night before. She's felt his hand trail up her thigh and felt him press his fingertips to her hip. And all the while, she's pretended to sleep, to snore just a little; all part of the little game, the back and forth, the teasing, that she enjoys with him. She wants to make him work for her attentions. Mustn't make him think that the pursuit is ever truly over. After all, he made her wait so very long to hear the words, "I do want to be stuck with you. I am asking you to marry me."

She feels his lips again; this time pressing more firmly. When his morning whiskers tickle her in the dip of her shoulder and then her neck, she tries in vain to suppress a giggle. As fractured curls of laughter fill the room, she feels Charles's smile as he mischievously nuzzles against her again before he inches up to whisper into her ear.

"I didn't know that you were ticklish Mrs. Hughes?"

A shock of electricity races down her spine as she closes her eyes and swallows hard. They'd not been married long when Elsie realized that Charles is always at his most amorous in these early morning hours when he's rested and the cares of the world melted away. And this morning he's proving quite distracting.

At his words, she turns and takes his face in her hands. In his eyes are written every word ever exchanged between them; every sentiment, every fear, every disagreement, every missed chance, every opportunity taken. She sees every inscription of friendship, adoration, devotion, and passion they've ever written upon the other's life. She adores this man, her husband. He a is composition of complexity that she never tires of reading; a book she will never finish.

"Didn't you now?" she asks as she smoothes her fingers through his hair and pulls his face close to her own. "I've only told you so every day we've been married. You're a hopeless liar Mr. Carson," she whispers against his lips.

"I've missed you," he manages before capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

She knew from the moment that night in his pantry when she felt his lips against hers, from the moment he took her to his bed, to their bed, and joined their bodies together, that she could never, that they would never get enough of one another. That when their bodies grow too old, when the desires of the flesh are not as important as they once were, as they are now, they will still live as closely as two people can for as long as life affords them.

"Oh My Charlie, you could have stayed," Her words are hushed against the rustling of the sheets as he gently moves above her. He doesn't answer. She knows the reasons why didn't stay, why he couldn't, but he doesn't want to draw any attention to that now, not when she lies so beautiful beneath him.

In a moment, he's lifting the hem of her nightgown. Smooth, peach cotton skims over lifted hips and rounded bottom, floats over soft stomach and breasts, glides over back, neck, and shoulders. Charles lifts the gown over her head and casts it uncharacteristically, unceremoniously aside and he meets her smile before burying his face in her neck with insistent kisses as she arches up to meet him.

Her body thrums with electricity, nerve endings burning blissfully with both fire and ice, hot where his lips are and cool tingling where they've been. The words that he whispers against her ear, some she only half hears over her own labored breathing, set her aflame with desire.

If Charles wondered if she missed him half as much as he missed her, those foolish thoughts are soon erased. Her fingertips flicker over his skin; skin that craves her touch. Her hands sweep along the width of his shoulders and while one finds purchase in his hair, the other descends down his side tracing the crests and valleys of his ribs and stretching muscles until she's at last tugging at the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Her hands sweep along the backs of his thighs and up his back. Though she knows every inch of his body, still, she marvels at his strength. Yet in his strength he is tender with her, tells her that she is everything to him. It is this combination of a mature man's tenderness and a young man's passion that causes her to draw him impossibly close, draw him to her bosom, as she kisses the crown of his head, and tells him how much she loves him.

He delights in every refrain of encouragement that slips from her lips. She has missed him and he has missed her. Not just bare skin upon bare skin and sweet nothings whispered late at night and in the early mornings, hearing one call the other's name, but they've missed the sharing of a sherry in the evenings, silent walks to church on Sundays, and pottering about in their garden. They are each one half of a whole.

The calling of his name spurs him on to complete this composition of his, of theirs, this symphony of lovers. Melody and harmony together. Bodies pressed together, a look of serious concentration on her husband's face, her hips arched and welcoming, a race to the finish, a sensation of warmth, and then as she draws him close to her, traces her hands along his shoulders and back as he smiles, his head cradled at her breast.

"No more London seasons, Elsie."

"No, Charlie. No more London seasons," she answers.

* * *

A/N: The London Season was usually after Easter and ended sometime in late July or mid-August around 12 August. In 1926, Easter Sunday fell on 4 April. We will assume that the Crawleys went to London within the next couple of weeks and for our story returned at the end of July, which in 1926 was one of the warmest months on record that year.

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Thank you for reading. If you see any glaring errors, please let me know so that I can correct them. And, if you are inclined a note of review is always appreciated.


	35. Fair

A/N: This is in response the latest Chelsie-Prompts challenge: Fair. If you would, hop over to my Tumblr page for the visual that is referenced here. You don't have to of course, but it will add to the story. The pictures there are from actual performers in the 19th century who I though bore a striking resemblance to our butler.

* * *

Charles noticed the inquisitive expression on Mrs. Wiggins's face when she handed him a bundle of letters and then made a dramatic point of turning and lifting a package, that she easily could have included with the rest, reaching across the counter, and then handing it to him. She watched as Charles's eyes dropped to examine the return address; even she recognized the name and she expected to see his reaction. She didn't exactly know the circumstances of their relation, but she knew there was one nevertheless and she hoped to gauge it by Mr. Carson's reaction. Charles, for his part, knew very well that the postmistress was good at hiding her emotions and his wife had told him on many occasions that the woman was the town gossip, though he'd not heard a thing float about town from she'd seen transpire in the garden shed some months earlier. Certainly Charles was grateful that his wife had the presence of mind to put Mrs. Wiggins in her place with a snappy retort and a withering glare; there was no way possible that Mrs. Wiggins would dare cross Mrs. Carson.

Charles resolved not to let on a thing; not to allow the post mistress to gauge his reaction as to why this particular sender would write to Elsie and what's more send a package to her. He forced himself to maintain a neutral face and when he looked up to find Mrs. Wiggins looking at him expectantly, he simply managed a polite smile and bid her good day.

The walk back to the cottage seemed much longer than usual as Charles mulled over what the contents of both the letter and the package might be. At first he briefly considered opening the letter, but just as quickly decided against it. The letter was, after all, addressed to Elsie and not to him though a small part of him argued that she had once read a letter of his. Then again, he reasoned that she hadn't _opened_ the letter, but retrieved a discarded letter from a wastepaper basket. Something anyone could have seen if they had looked. Still, as he meandered home, that Elsie was the recipient of this particular correspondence and not himself, niggled at him nonetheless.

* * *

"Charlie what on earth took you so long," Elsie asked concerned, with a tinge of irritation lacing her tone. "I was about to set out after you." Charles was always very prompt in his errands, always arriving and returning precisely when he said that he would. Elsie moved the plate of sandwiches from the counter to the kitchen table and with a quick flick of her finger indicated that her husband should sit.

"It's a good thing that we're having a cold lunch today," she remarked as she pulled her chair away from the table and sat down.

Charles did as he was bidden and sat, putting the bundle of post on the table between them. While Elsie tucked in to her lunch and began chatting about the call that she'd received from the estate workmen who were making the changes and repairs to their guesthouse. Each of the rooms now had a fresh coat of paint and it would not be long before they could begin selecting furnishings for the rooms. That would take some time, she mused. They would take one room at a time, minding the money they spent on each one. Soon, however, she began to notice that Charles hadn't responded beyond a hum or a simple nod of the head in acknowledgement.

"Charlie, whatever is the matter?" Elsie asked when she realized that she was part of a one-person conversation.

"Nothing. Nothing is the matter. Why do you thing something is the matter?" Charles answered all to quickly to be convincing.

"It's just that you've not heard a word that I've said and that you've been staring at the post as if it is going to jump up and bite you. Now if you will please tell me what is wrong." Elsie could tell that her husband was unsettled and was determined to find out why.

"You've a letter and that parcel," he finally managed, his middle finger tapping the aforementioned items and pushing them toward her.

"And that's what has you so upset?" his wife teased with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "My, my, now I must see what's in this mysterious letter. Perhaps it's from an old beau," she laughed as she dusted her hands off on her napkin. She noticed that she beetle-browed husband did not find her attempt at humor amusing. She sighed and with a smile and wink, she reached across the table and took one of his hands in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

After a moment, Elsie pulled her hand away from Charles and reached for the letter. Immediately, she noticed the return address and cause of Charles's distress. She couldn't imagine why, after all these years, Charlie Grigg would write to them, and especially to her.

"I'm sure that he needs something," Charles grumbled, his face twisted into a deep scowl.

Elsie chose to ignore his remark and instead slipped her fingernail under the flap separating it from the rest of the envelope. Upon hearing the sound of the paper separating, Charles breathed in deeply and his brows twisted downward pulling in on themselves. It seemed to him that it took Elsie an age to pull the letter from the envelope and unfold it when really it only took her a matter of seconds. And as her eyes scanned down the first few lines, the nervous anticipation Charles felt built to a bursting point.

"Well," he almost exclaimed.

"Oh, sorry," Elsie replied contritely as she looked up from the letter.

"What does it say?"

Elsie looked back at the letter, her eyes squinted as they adjusted to read script that was not nearly as pristine as her husband's. But Charlie Grigg was most certainly a different man than her Charlie. Whereas her Charles was a man of honor and integrity, well respected by his employers and the community alike, Grigg was more than a little rough around the edges. His was a difficult life spending what money he had on women and whisky, running scams, trying to stay one step ahead of the police, and bouncing from one job to another. But ever since Elsie had found Grigg in the workhouse, filthy, in ragged clothes, and deathly ill, she had a bit of a soft spot for him

"Elsie, what does he say?" Charles asked again.

"Well, he says that he keeps in touch some with Lady Merton and she told him of our marriage. He sends his best wishes and congratulations." Elsie smiled softly at the thought that Charlie and Lady Merton kept in touch. Perhaps Mr. Grigg had turned over a new leaf even if her Charlie remained skeptical. Surely Grigg would have honored Lady Merton's hospitality and Elsie's goodwill by keeping along the straight and narrow path. Well, as best he could at least.

"And that's all?" Charles asked incredulously.

"No. He says that he's moved back to England, that he has a job at a theatre in London, and that he is doing very well." She paused when she heard a grumble from her husband. She looked up sharply and glared at her husband before continuing to read the letter. "He says that he met up with an old pal…"

"I'm sure at a pub and…."

"Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?" Elsie's patience was beginning to wear thin with her old curmudgeon of a husband. Charles could be very stubborn at times and often did not believe that people could change given the chance.

"Go on," Charles breathed out gruffly.

"He says that he came across this old pal of his and yours called William McNeil who was a photographer and poster maker and they were taking about old times and Mr. McNeil remembered you and asked after you." Elsie continued to read down the page, past some superfluous information so that she could give her husband the condensed version which she knew was what mattered most to him.

"Mr. McNeil is retiring and selling his studio and in doing so, he engaged Charlie to help him clean things out and tidy the place up. In all of the stacks of things, Charlie found some things that he thought we might want to have. That is what is in the parcel."

"Elsie, I told you that time in my life is one that I would rather forget and I haven't changed my mind about that," Charles blustered before placing his napkin on the table with considerable dramatic effect.

"And you wonder why he sent this to me," she retorted with a roll of the eyes. "How horrible could it be? Well. I'm opening it. So you may either stay here or be on your way."

Charles heaved a heavy sigh and with a deep set frown decided that he would indeed stay. He realized that while he and Charlie might never be the friends that they were in the early days, they had parted on decent terms and Grigg did have some affection for his rescuers and rehabilitators, Elsie and Lady Merton. Surely, the man would never send something to Elsie that would embarrass her or make Charles look badly in her eyes.

"Why don't we sit on the settee and open it together?" Charles offered by way of apology and reconciliation for his sharp tone a moment ago.

"I'd like that," his wife smiled as she brushed her hand down his arm and wrapped her fingers around his as she led him away from the kitchen table.

Snuggled on the settee together, Elsie handed the letter off to her husband so that he might read it for himself while she worked loose the parcel's packaging. Charles scrubbed a slightly trembling hand across the back of his neck and tryied to remember who this William McNeil might be and exactly what things after all these years he might have that he would be interested in having. He remarked to Elsie that he could not really remember who Mr. McNeil was, but that he did vaguely recall a man who followed performers to local fairs and painted posters for theatre venues and such, though he didn't recall much more than that. Charles reminded Elsie that he was no more than about eighteen years old when he met Charlie Grigg so in that with the passage of time there were some people and places that he no longer recalled.

Strangely, Elsie felt a sense of nervous anticipation as she pulled the plain brown paper away from the box it covered. She allowed the paper to cascade to the floor beside her feet as she lifted the top of the box and passed it to her husband who set it aside on a nearby table. She folded back a thin layer of tissue paper to find two items, the one on top being a picture of a young man with a shock of dark hair, dressed in a dark suit posing for the photographer while performing a card trick.

"Oh Charlie," Elsie exclaimed as she held the picture over for her husband to see. "You were so very young. And very handsome."

"My word." Charles was taken aback as he looked over the photograph that she held in her hands. "I had forgotten that had ever been taken."

Elsie traced her fingers over the portrait of her husband, so very young and proud. A wistful smile played about her lips; if only to have known him then, she mused. She had a scant few mementoes of her own childhood and young womanhood and she would always be grateful to Charlie Grigg for sending this picture to them.

"What a man of mystery I married," the warmth very evident in her words as she reached up to kiss his cheek. "Why did you never mention that you performed magic tricks?"

"I had forgotten it for the most part," he answered honestly. "It was before Grigg and I teamed up. We were performing at a fair together and I performed magic tricks. Basic illusions really. Card ticks, juggling, pulling rabbits out of hats, small time stuff. Grigg was running one of the stalls. One night the lot of us were at a pub and…." Charles stopped and looked at his wife with suitable shame written over his features though he knew she would never judge what was done fifty years ago and by a nothing more than a boy.

"Charlie, if you don't think that I know that young men….and old… go to pubs and enjoy a pint or more…well…" she comforted with a wink and a gentle squeeze to his knee.

"Well, Grigg and I commiserated that were tired of making nothing more than a little change for our pockets. As the night wore on and as we became a little more…. cheerful in our festivities…. we began to entertain our fellow performers by singing songs and Grigg telling jokes and me playing his straight man. We went over so well, it was then that we decided to leave the fairs and form a double act. And…well…you know that rest."

Elsie pressed the picture of her husband into his hand while she turned her attention back to the box that rested on her lap and she pulled something heavier, something larger and folded from the box. She laid the box aside and unfolded the yellowed paper to reveal a broadside advertising a fair in Uxbridge.

"Was this a fair you performed in?"

"It was." Charles smiled. It was the first time that Elsie ever remembered Charles smiling when reminiscing about his days as a performer. She wasn't sure that he even realized that he was doing it. It warmed her heart that he had perhaps made peace with a past he had no reason to be ashamed of.

"Would you show me?"

"Show you?"

"I'm sure that you still remember something from those days. Can you still perform some sleight of hand?"

"Oh no. Elsie, I don't think so. No," Charles protested. While those days of performing small magic tricks and delighting scores of children, seeing their eyes light up brought him great personal satisfaction, he'd not performed in years. The last sleight of hand that he'd performed involved producing a six pence from behind the ear of a certain dark-haired favorite who frequented the office of the butler.

Charles kissed his wife's cheek and she set the broadside onto the table in front of them as she moved closer into his embrace. His lips found their way from her cheek to her lips and his hands to the small of her back as he pulled her closer.

"You're trying to distract me, Charlie Carson," Elsie whispered against her husband's lips. When he claimed her lips again she heard a most contented hum from her husband and could feel his left hand move from her waist as he pulled away from her.

"So you'd like to see a bit of sleight of hand, hm?"

"I would," she answered, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

Charles reached behind his wife's right ear and slowly brought forth a shilling and pressed it into her hand. Astonished, not at the old trick that she'd seen performed countless times at county fairs over the years, but at the fact that her husband had shared this part of his past with her brought both a smile to her face and tears to her eyes. Over the years he had constantly surprised her. She would never look at the magicians at the county fair the same way again without thinking they paled in comparison to the magic that she had in her own home.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. A review is always appreciated.


	36. Flesh and the Devil

**In response to the Chelsie Prompt: Theatre**

**Flesh and the Devil, 1927**

"But I don't like to sit in the back of the theatre Elsie," Charles grumbled as they made way through the crowd to find seats in the busy theatre.

"Well, Charlie try to concentrate on the fact that I've a night off and let's enjoy the time together," his very reasonable wife chided with a hint of exasperation. Honestly, her husband could find the fault in any situation that put a chink in his plans.

"You know very well that the only people who sit in the back of the theatre are those who talk or those who engage in … in … intimate behavior," he whispered much to the amusement of his wife. Elsie hooked her arm in the crook of his elbow and with her free hand patted his arm.

"Well, who knows. Perhaps, everyone will behave themselves. I trust that _you_ will," she teased earning a scandalized glare from her husband.

Settled comfortably on the back row of seats and surrounded by villagers both young and old and a multitude of servants from neighboring estates, Charles and Elsie tucked in to watch the film. Charles had not been particularly keen on the content of the film, two men fighting over a woman, or on the star of the picture, John Gilbert. But, as Elsie had not retired fully yet and had the night off, he had chosen to indulge her. His normal plans for nights off generally called for a quiet evening at home in front of the fire or a quiet dinner at the pub.

The film was very romantic. A man falling in love with a woman he shouldn't have and then her falling in love with his best mate. _Something overly familiar about this_, Charles thought. But that whole sorry business with Grigg and Alice didn't sting anymore and he never gave it more than a fleeting thought. Anyway, Charles and Grigg had patched things up, he was with the woman he was meant to be with, and all was right with his world; except, he abhorred the male star of the film. But he loved his wife, and the film was her choice, so here he was sitting in a crowded theatre feigning some interest.

While Charles ignored most of the action on the screen, his wife seemed besotted with the leading man, what with his dark wavy hair, pencil thin mustache, and soulful eyes. Charles spent his time looking over the theatre, casting his gaze over the various people seated in the middle rows of seats; where he wished to sit until he and Elsie arrived too late to claim them. Who knew that every servant from Thirsk to Ripon and everywhere in between seemed to have the night off? Or so it appeared. Deciding that it would do no good to further brood on a matter he could not change, Charles turned to find his wife engrossed in the film and he smiled. If Elsie was happy that was all that mattered.

Until something else caught his eye.

Two young people engaged in a decidedly romantic entanglement of their own. Charles could not imagine why these two young people would engage in such an untoward display of affection within the full view of everyone. With a gruff huff of his own, Charles righted himself in his seat and faced forward, while his starry-eyed wife sat just that extra bit closer to him.

* * *

After a time, Charles felt Elsie pull her hand from the crook of his elbow where she'd had it tucked for most of the film and place it on his knee. At first he was a bit concerned that those sitting around them might be shocked to see a woman such as his wife, a woman of style and grace, of the highest moral character, committing such an intimate act in public. But he decided that the theatre was dark, that they were on the back row and that there really wasn't anything really untoward in the gesture. Certainly not like those two young people in the corner seats. What was it he'd heard his wife say once? _Chewing the mouth off one another._ No. This was his Elsie and she could never do anything so unladylike.

Yet …

It was only after his wife's hand began to softly skim up his thigh that he began to feel the heat in his face and other areas.

He hazarded a glance in her direction but her eyes were still trained on the silent, flickering images of John Gilbert and Greta Garbo. Her face gave nothing away as if she had no clue the effect that she was having on her husband.

"Elsie," Charles leaned over and whispered into her ear, "you must stop. We are in a crowded theatre. People will see." Much to his amazement and mortification, his words did not have the effect that he intended. Rather than stilling her hand, Elsie silently continued to watch the film, while tip-toeing her fingers up Charles's thigh until settling just below …

Charles breathed a sigh of relief but knew that his wife realized very well what she was doing. The effect that she was having on him was an excruciating kind of pleasure. If only they were at their cottage, he would kiss her senseless and then whisk her off to their bedroom.

For a moment or two Elsie was content to let things be, but then she leaned in and whispered into her husband's ear.

Charles's ears burned red hot. He could not believe Elsie's suggestion. Not that she hadn't suggested such things before, but never out of the privacy of their own home, never even out of the privacy of their bedroom. He looked around to make certain that no one was looking, that no one could have possibly heard what his lovely, proper, hot-blooded, Scottish girl had suggested. Charles nervously cleared his throat and glanced to his left and just as he looked to his right, his wife captured his lips in a blistering kiss. Elsie entangled her hands in his hair as she pulled him closer.

"Elsie! What has gotten into you?"

"Well, that's up to you Charlie," she breathed against his lips before kissing him again. Despite his reservations about who might see them or if anyone might have heard things Elsie had said, Charles could not stop kissing his wife. As they turned to fully face one another, his left hand found her waist, and his fingers flexed along her back as he pulled her closer. His right hand rested on her shoulder and then her neck as his thumb caressed her cheek and jaw.

It seemed that an age passed as they kissed: slow, deep lingering kisses, little nibbles, kisses to the cheek, nibbles to Charles's earlobes, suckles to Elsie's neck. All the while, the screen was flickering behind them and the theatre's organist playing a romantic serenade it seemed just for Charles and Elsie.

Charles hadn't known when he'd felt so thrillingly alive as his wife had made him feel at this moment. Of course, their wedding night had been a revelation, a great awakening. But that had been a private affair. That Elsie would be so bold as to kiss him in public like this and that he would kiss her in return was simply beyond his comprehension. It was as if he was caught up in some strange, bold, and reckless tidal wave and his wife was taking him with her.

"Oh Elsie, Elsie." Charles began to call her name over and over. He was desperate. He wanted her, his temptress of a wife.

"Elsie."

"Elsie …"

"Elsie … oh, my Elsie. I love you."

"Charlie. Charlie," Elsie called quietly.

"Elsie, I love you."

"I love you too, Charlie," Elsie laughed, squeezing her husband's hand firmly.

"Ouch! Why did you do that?" Charles had forgotten that his wife had quite a firm handshake. He supposed the firmness of her grip had come from years of cleaning, washing, and ironing as a housemaid.

"The film's over Charlie. I'm afraid that you've slept through most of it," Elsie pointed out matter-of-factly. "But you must have had a very nice dream."

Charles sat up very straight in his seat and nervously began pulling on his gloves in preparation to leave. His face flushed crimson, and he felt his stomach sink. He wondered how much he'd said ... or worse, done to embarrass them both.

"Why do you say that?" he sheepishly asked as he extended his hand to his wife, helping her from her seat.

"Oh, you had the most wonderfully contented smile," she answered, putting her worried husband's mind at ease.

She'd never tell him that he'd kissed his wife soundly on the lips and declared his love for her to all and sundry to witness.

A/N: Thanks for reading. The only way that Charles would ever misbehave in public would be if he was dreaming. LOL.

A/N: Flesh and the Devil is a movie that was filmed in 1926 and released in 1927 starring John Gilbert and Greta Garbo. The premise of the story is that Gilbert falls for a married woman Garbo and then goes to war. He asks his best friend to look after her. The best friend falls in love with her and she him. When John Gilbert's character returns from war, he realizes this and becomes very jealous. He challenges his best friend to a duel. On her way to stop them, Greta Garbo's character falls through some ice on a frozen river and drowns. The two men eventually reconcile, realizing that their friendship meant more to them than this contrary woman neither of them should have been with.


	37. Dance

A/N: This is in response to a prompt challenge from Chelsie-Prompts entitled: Dance. This is the second installment in an unintentional series that follows an AU Charles and Elsie Carson and their three children: Kate, Margaret, and Charlie. This entry is set in Spring 1939 just on the brink of World War II. It is a prequel to Chapter 30: Glances. So if you haven't read that you can read this first and then read that so things make sense. Or read that first, or whatever. Happy Downton S7 Day!

* * *

Spring 1939

As his fists clench and unclench, fingertips curling around and tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat, Charles Carson anxiously awaits the arrival of his daughter. His wife is tucked away in another room with a group of small group of women fussing over the details of today's event. He sees them scurrying in and out one of the bedrooms. Elsie's younger sister Becky suddenly pops her head around the corner and instructs Charles in no uncertain terms to keep himself and any other man ten feet from that bedroom door or face her wrath. A few minutes later, joyous laughter, hands brought together in applause, and choruses of congratulations, cause Charles's heart to beat wildly as he scrubs an unsteady hand through his hair.

After today their lives will be altered. Forever.

"You may come in now," Becky beckons him with a wide grin as she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.

When the village women, their friends, pull away, Charles is speechless at what he sees before him.

"What's the matter, Charles? Has the cat got your tongue?" Elsie teases gently.

"No," he quietly answers with an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he sinks his right hand into his trouser pocket to check that the new coin that he placed there this morning is still there.

"Well, Dad, what do you think?"

"You are beautiful Kate," Charles replies to his eldest daughter who is standing across the room in all her bridal finery. "I don't think that I've ever seen a lovelier bride. Michael will be …"

Elsie smiles fondly at her bear of a husband. Charles is her stalwart man. He is sensible and reserved, calm and always steady, but a man who now with tears in his eyes cannot find his voice as he fully realizes that soon he will walk their first born down the aisle of St. Michael's And All Angel's Church to her awaiting groom. As they gaze at the bride-to-be, Elsie wraps an arm around her younger daughter Margaret's waist, tells her that she'll be next one to be married, _after she completes university_. The room has gone quiet, and Elsie surveys all of their friends, her dearest friend Mrs. Mason has her handkerchief brought to her the corners of her eyes, pressing away the tears there. Even wise-cracking Becky, who is more a sister to Kate than to Elsie, seems to have the sniffles.

As Charles finally finds his footing, Elsie quietly clears the room of weeping women telling them that they will meet them in a few minutes at the church. When Becky has ushered them out of the house and to the waiting cars outside, the house falls silent once again, except for the three quiet voices of mother, father, and daughter. A final few words before lives change and new lives begin.

* * *

In church, Elsie sits beside her son who is so much the image of her father. Short and stocky with strong shoulders and equally strong opinions, Charlie Carson wears his naval uniform with pride. When he'd told them he was signing up, Elsie had forbidden it. She soon found that her son had her Scottish stubbornness and her iron will. Forbidding him to do something proved counterproductive, and Charlie enlisted the moment his mother uttered the very words of opposition. Charles had told her that the boy must make his own decisions. In the end, she'd come around to see that both of her men were right. Apparently, the boy has salt water in his veins.

But she worries. Storm clouds are gathering quickly, and there is the talk of war in the air.

Elsie cannot help but remember the last time she worried over a Carson man at war. She was a young wife cradling a newborn babe to her bosom. Now she watches as her husband stands tall and proud beside that young woman as his gives her hand in marriage.

When Charles has placed a kiss on his daughter's cheek and taken his seat beside Elsie, she feels the warmth of his bare hand slip into her gloved one, his fingers curling softly but firmly around hers. She casts her eyes downward at their joined hands as her husband brings his right hand to cover their joined ones and when she looks up, she finds him studying their hands in serious contemplation. Elsie cannot help the gentle smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. She's almost positive that she knows what he's thinking because she is thinking it too. It seems like yesterday that they were the ones standing at the altar where Kate and Michael now stand, pledging themselves to one another for as long as life allows.

As the vicar's voice rings loud and clear through the halls of the ancient church, Elsie remembers that once, Charles was the nervous groom standing by _her_ side and _she_ was the bride in the white gown. Oh her dress wasn't as extravagant as the one that her daughter wears, but she didn't mind. Elsie's wedding suit was lovely, but there was no intricate lace, no church length train flowing behind her. None of that mattered to her. The only thing that mattered to Elsie was the man standing beside her, home on leave, and hers for a fortnight. That was all that mattered.

Charles isn't listening to much of what's being said; the reading of the verses and the order of service is all programmed. Anyone can read words off a page. Instead, he's holding onto his wife's hand as if his life depends on it. Everyone in the village thinks him the resolute one. The stalwart. The village hospital surgeon whose hands never flinch, never tremble. But he trembles today. He wonders if Elsie feels it. He remembers the day that he saw his own bride in white. The moment that he stopped breathing for that briefest of seconds as she walked down the aisle to meet him. He knew that he had never seen her more beautiful than in that moment. But as he sits beside her now, after all these years, he thinks her more beautiful now which makes what he has to tell her all the more difficult.

Charles wonders if Elsie feels the shifting of the sands the way that he feels it. He feels as if everything he's known until this moment has changed.

A son in uniform, a daughter at university, and now the eldest married.

An empty house.

War imminent.

And now he must leave her. Alone in that house. That empty house. But she has her work, he reasons. She'll be fine. She'll keep busy, and she has her friends. But he owes her today. He'll not deny her today's happiness.

* * *

"Kate's very happy," Elsie murmurs over the rim of her champagne glass just before taking a sip.

"I hope that Michael intends to keep her that way," Charles grumbles.

"Oh, I think that he will. They're well matched," she concludes.

Elsie hears the deep sigh of her husband, and though Charles is fond of his new son-in-law, she knows that he still hasn't made peace with the notion that his eldest has married and left home; that she is moving to London and will set up housekeeping there. But she thinks that a mother has a different vantage point, a different perspective from which a father sees a daughter. Charles still sees the little girl with the big hazel eyes and dark curls meeting him at the door each night hugging him tightly around his legs. He sees the little girl who sat on his lap, her head on his chest as he read bedtime stories and planted fatherly kisses to her hair.

Elsie sees those things too, but she also sees in Kate a strong and capable young woman. Sharing her father's exacting standards, those who don't know her well think her arrogant. But Elsie knows that Kate simply wants things done properly, wants them done the right way the first time. That trait will serve her well as a nurse working in a busy London hospital. Elsie sees a bit of herself as well. Kate doesn't suffer fools, but also has a kind heart and is a fierce protector of those she loves.

Charles pushes his chair back and stands, his hand outstretched to his wife. An invitation extended.

She smiles and places her hand in his. An invitation accepted.

They glide across the dancefloor with practiced ease and flashes of memories, like snapshots in a photograph alumn flood Charles's mind. He remembers the first time that a band played and he held Elsie close. He chuckles to himself at the chasteness of it all. The stiff posture of a waltz at the Downton Hospital Charity Ball. How old Lady Grantham scoured the crowds making certain that all of the medical students and nurses kept a respectable distance as they danced. He wonders if she remembers.

"Something has improved your mood," Elsie teases.

"Oh, I remembered the first time we shared a dance," he rumbles.

"And that is funny?" she quips as she pulls back and looks up at him.

"No," he assures her as he pulls her close again. "I just remembered that our dances then were very chaste and I very much wanted to dance like this." Charles places a kiss on her cheek.

"You're being very sentimental."

"I told Kate that I'd never seen a more beautiful bride." Charles pauses and gently tugs his right hand free only to place it on his wife's cheek. His hand still steady at the small of Elsie's back, they are locked still in time while all the others float around them in time with the music. With deep blue eyes and through dark black lashes, Elsie looks up at her husband and finds that he has turned quite serious. Just when she is about to ask him what he is on about he kisses her for all and sundry to see. Elsie is astonished that her upright and proper husband would display such a private moment, such tender affections for her in public.

"I lied Elsie," he confesses as their lips part. "Her mother was the most beautiful bride that I've ever seen. You still are beautiful in my eyes."

* * *

TBC…. Thank you for reading. You have probably figured out Charles's dilemma. If you have read Chapter 30 in Prompts then you know what he dreads telling Elsie. At some point, I will combine these prompt responses for our little AU family here into their own story. Thank you for reading. A little review would be lovely. x


	38. Gifts

Gifts

A/N: Hi all, I have retired for the most part but I am offering up a little something that I've been working on. This is mostly Elsie and Thomas in the first part and all Elsie in the second part. Charles features in this as well, but you will see what I mean. This is written in response to last month's Chelsie-Prompts Challenge: Gifts. I'm just a little late. And it's not beta read, so please excuse errors.

* * *

14 February 1946

She startles a bit and her head snaps up. She's not expecting a knock at her front door this morning. It's early yet and she's still enjoying a cuppa and bite of toast as she watches the frost gently melt away from her kitchen window. The sun is bright and she thinks that if she wears her warmest coat, pulls on her thickest gloves, and wraps her best scarf around her neck and chest, that just perhaps it will be warm enough this February morning that she may walk over to Yew Tree Farm and visit with Mrs. Mason. She's tired of being cooped up in the cottage. The winter's been a cold and dreary one.

Especially this winter.

Especially since November last.

Elsie swallows down one last fortifying drop of tea and puts down her cup beside her plate and drops the last scrap of the bacon rasher she's been nibbling on to the floor where the scruffy wire hair terrier that followed Charles home two springs ago laps it up. She reaches down and scratches the mut between his ears and thinks for the thousandth time that she never would have thought her husband would have brought strays home and yet they've had three of them over the course of their marriage. Lad may not be to the manor born, but he's a good dog and keeps her company.

She'll do the washing up after her visitor leaves. She has plenty of time for that sort of thing now. There is another knock at the door and it isn't insistent; it isn't rude or demanding. Whomever is on the other side probably thinks she hasn't heard the first attempt to summon her is all. Elsie sighs and wonders who could be out on such a morning. It isn't time for the papers to be delivered and she hasn't ordered any milk or eggs for today.

As she passes from the kitchen through the sitting room on her way to the door, she catches a glimpse of herself in the glass. She touches a hand to her hair and smoothes it across the mostly white strands; a few threads of brown stubbornly hang on, but she wonders for how much longer. She's never been a terribly vain woman, but she still keeps herself up. Even though her hips have filled out and her shoulders have rounded. She looks more a grandmother now than the housekeeper. Funny the irony of it. She isn't Granny to anyone; she has no grandchild to cuddle. She hasn't been Mrs. Hughes in nearly two decades; she hasn't a house with staff to command. She is simply Mrs. Carson and it's the simplicity of that title suits her best.

She does have Jack Bates, Anna and John's boy. He is the closest thing that she and Charles have ever had to a grandson. But Jack lives off in Manchester and doesn't get back to Downton much anymore. The war years were difficult and Charles and Elsie worried endlessly about his safety. Charles scoured the papers searching for every detail of the whereabouts of Jack's division; France, Germany, and then when he was wounded and ended up at the field hospital. Elsie had never expected her husband to take to the boy so, but he had taken him to his heart completely. The map with the tiny red flags marking the movements of Jack Bates, George Crawley, and Charlie Talbot still hangs on back of the garden shed door just as it has since the end of the war. She's seen no reason to take it down.

Perhaps one day Jack will want it as a remembrance.

It's only when she opens the door and the cold comes rushing in that she realizes she is still in her dressing gown, and she instinctively wraps her free arm around herself. But this man, the one who is standing before her so early this morning will not mind if she is still in her dressing gown and slippers because he's seen her like this many times before in the middle of the night when there was a crisis. When William and Mr. Matthew had gone missing, when flu had overtaken the house, when poor Lady Sybil had died so suddenly, and when Lady Edith set fire to her bedroom that awful night.

"I hope that I didn't wake you."

"No. Old habits," she responds fondly. "It is freezing. You'll your catch death. Come in."

Had she and Charles, like John and Anna, traveled that other path with one another when they were younger, perhaps they might have had a son. Perhaps he might have resembled this man. Tall, regal in his bearing, the paunch of middle age settled about his hips, his black hair now streaked with platinum, icy blue eyes still twinkling with mischief, and his chin held high in defiance of his rank, this man is much like them in ways. In ways that her husband would never admit to this "son" of theirs. The lessons were hard learned, but his father was never one to spare the rod and spoil the child and this man has transformed from the unsure footman of his youth into the confident butler of his middle age.

Thomas Barrow pulls off his hat and Elsie puts it on the table near the door and as Thomas folds his gloves and pushes them into the pocket of his coat, Elsie tells him to make himself to home and then retreats to the kitchen to fuss with the kettle. The water's gone cold and after she's filled it and lit the burner, she slices two pieces of bread and fixes them between the grates of the toaster. As she rustles about in the kitchen she hears him shuffling about. He hasn't sat yet. She knew he wouldn't. Not until she has returned.

It hasn't taken the kettle long to re-heat and the bread has toasted.

Thomas holds the back of her chair and and pushes it forward after she's taken her seat. His manners are always impeccable and though they've had their fair share of disagreements over the years, time has caused most of those heated arguments to dull. They are family after all and time has a way of healing most wounds.

"There you are. It'll warm you up." She hands a cup of steaming tea to her guest after he's seated and begins to butter a piece of toast from the plate in front of her. As she sets about her task, Thomas smiles. He knows that she has finished her breakfast and that she is doing all of this for him. No one has buttered his toast since he was a boy and his older sister saw to it that he had porridge or toast and something to drink for breakfast.

Thomas takes a nice long sip of tea and lets it wash down the back of his throat. He doesn't enjoy taking tea as much as he once did. Not since Mrs. Carson retired as housekeeper. Though he enjoyed Mrs. Molesley's company, even she could not brew as fine a cup of tea as the redoubtable Elsie Carson. And certainly, this new woman, this Mrs. Brown who comes in from the village every day doesn't measure up; not by half.

"It's been a while since you've visited." Her words hang in the air between them thick with meaning. Thomas pretends not to notice.

"I saw you last week at church and I spoke to you on the telephone just two days ago," he answers back before hastily taking another sip of his tea and biting off the corner of his toast.

"That is not what I said." She'll not let him off that easily and he should have known better. They are both older and they know each other better than most people know one another. They've a lifetime of memories and understanding, both said and unsaid.

"You've not visited in months Thomas."

"I've been busy." The lie rolls off his tongue easily. Even still when he's tried to curb the habit of doing so, old habits die hard and she's caught him out.

"Hmmphf."

"Now that sounds familiar. That grumble. You picked that up from _him_," Thomas chides as he breaks off the corner of his toast and offers it to Lad who sits patiently, but expectantly at his feet. Elsie cannot help but to laugh at Thomas's observation.

"I suppose I did," she agrees lightly. "Perhaps you might come walk with Lad on occasion If you like. I think he misses a man about the place," she offers as she watches Thomas run his hands over the dog's coat and scratch his ears.

Thomas looks up with a tight smile and appreciation Even after all these years, all that Elsie knows about him, after all of their disagreements, her having to stand in between him and her husband over heated arguments during the transition from Charles's tenure as butler to Thomas's, she still treats him with kindness. He's tried to follow her example, that of her and Mrs. Molesley's, to mellow in his middle years. His affection for Miss Sybbie and Master George has helped to smooth away the rough edges from his heart.

"I'd like that. Very much. Thank you," he answers, affection for Elsie evident in his voice.

Thomas finishes his toast and Elsie refills his teacup once more as they settle into conversation. He fills her in on the goings-on up at the house though he is certain that she already knows exactly everything that goes on without his telling her. But she lets him, just as she let Charles. In a funny way, nostalgia swells in her heart. It brings back the old days when she was still housekeeper and she and the Butler sat in her parlour or his at the end of the day and raked over the day's events. Of course when Charles was butler, their conversations were more personal, but she revels in the feelings of yesteryear. She remembers how Charles told her he no longer felt "a part of things" in those early years after his retirement and how she kept up their little ritual of evening talks over a glass of sherry discussing matters of the house she'd learned from Mrs. Patmore. Those talks seems to ease his burden; to make him feel relevant, a part of things. Somehow, she feels that Thomas is doing the same for her now.

But as Thomas prattles on about miscellaneous things, about a houseguest who is spending the week visiting Lady Mary, Elsie knows that there is something more important on his mind.

"As much as I appreciate your visiting Thomas, I can't help but think that you've something on your mind." Thomas looks at her with questioning eyes, but knows that she can read him very well. He's been at Downton and in her presence longer than with his own family. Elsie and Phyllis Molesley know him better than most people ever will..

"I haven't been to visit because … because I still … well, you'd never believe it but I do miss him and …"

"… and it seems as if he's still here. At the cottage?" Thomas nods in affirmation and it does Elsie's heart good to know that Thomas can admit that he misses her husband. That even though he and Charles were often at loggerheads, the butler feels the loss of his predecessor.

Elsie reaches across the table and places her hand atop Thomas's.

"It seems that way for me too. Every place I look, he's there. I hear his footsteps, sometimes I hear him humming that silly tune," she pauses a moment as she drifts back to the sight of Charles singing as he polished His Lordship's silver after he learned that she did not have cancer.

"Sometimes late at night, the bells in the servants hall ring for no apparent reason," Thomas confides in her.

"He told me once that he thought that he would die at the Abbey and haunt it ever after. Perhaps he is." They both share a weepy laugh and Elsie pulls her hand from Thomas's and drags a slender finger under her eye as she catches a tear there.

"It's probably just a short in the electric bell system. I need to have it seen to." He pauses and then considers his next thought. " He hated when they installed that," Thomas smirks.

"That he did," she concurs, "but since it was Lady's Mary's idea, he would hardly admit it aloud." There is a pause in the conversation before Elsie adds, "It's good to remember those we care about Thomas. It's the natural way of things."

Thomas reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a bundle of small black journals and a yellowed envelope and passes them across the table.

"You've brought me a books and a St. Valentine's Day card?" She quips until she notices the serious expression on his face and tears clouding his eyes.

"We were moving some things up at the house the other day, making room for things you see, and up in the attics there was a box in a corner marked Butler's Pantry and well … these belong to you. I don't know why they were there, who moved them, or when they were moved there. I didn't ask Lady Mary if I should bring thing to you because they aren't really a part of the house. They belong to _you_. _They are personal_." Thomas almost whispers the last word.

The penny drops and suddenly Elsie realizes the full intent of Thomas's statement. The books are Charles's but the contents of them and the card are for her. She wonders how much Thomas has read; she knows that he has read enough to know that the volumes are personal and that he's said that they belong to her. Twice he's said that they belong to her and to her specifically. She reaches for them and for a moment she suddenly feels a sudden warmth wash over her. She hasn't felt it since Charles was alive, since the last time he held her in his arms. And she closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, enjoys the sensation.

She pushes her glasses into place and then pulls the twine that is holding the little stack of diaries neatly together. She begins to thumb through the first volume and sees her name in Charles's neat black script on the yellowed pages. She sees other words: Head Housemaid, diligence, intelligent, promotion, Housekeeper, recommendation, stubborn. She smiles as tears fill her eyes and she looks up to Thomas.

"Are they all like this?"

"I know you'll not believe me, but I didn't read them all," he confesses. "Just enough to see that what they were. I do believe that they might be. He wrote them before he retired."

"And the envelope?" She asks as she puts she diary aside and reaches for the envelope.

"I didn't steam it open if that's what you're asking," Thomas smirks.

Elsie raises an eyebrow at Thomas's cheek. She slips a fingernail under the flap of the envelop and immediately thinks of how Charles would find the gesture so inappropriate; that only a proper paper knife would do. She reaches inside to find a postcard that she knows well. Once she had pinned the postcard to the notice board in Charles's pantry at Grantham House. Hot tears fall in earnest, as she remembers the day on the beach all those years ago when she dared him to take her hand and he finally plucked up the courage to trust her with his heart. She turns the card over to find where he'd written something on the reverse.

"Oh Charlie," Elsie cries as she brings her hand to her mouth. Thomas pulls a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to her.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have brought them," he worries. The last thing Thomas wants to do is upset Elsie especially at this stage of her life.

"No," she assures him. "They are such a gift. A blessing to me. Really." She reaches out to grasp his hand and holds it tightly. "You and Charlie have given me a wonderful gift."

* * *

Elsie never makes it to Yew Tree Farm to visit Mrs. Mason that day. Instead she pulls Charles's dressing gown from the cupboard, wraps it around her, and then settles on the settee with a kettle of tea on the table in front of her, the stack of diaries beside her, and Lad curled at her feet. Each diary she opens is like a love letter from her husband; each a record of their lives together from the time she arrived at Downton as head strong Head Housemaid who refused to quake in the face of his posturing, to the confident Housekeeper who kept everything afloat including the Butler when his confidence faltered. There are the entries when, between the lines, she reads of his anguish over the decision of leaving the Abbey and her for Haxby and in the end his relief over not leaving after all. Then there are the entries written in the late hours of the night, the nights after they had shared a small glass of sherry and she'd gone up to bed exhausted while he'd stayed in his pantry, staring at the four walls wondering what the doctor's report would say. His words are filled desperation pondering how he could help her and other words riddled with fear that she would die; they cause her heart to ache even now. And just as her heart breaks because of his anguish, anguish that he could not express then and she could not help him heal, there is an the entry filled with broad upstrokes of jubilation and thanksgiving at his knowing that she would live. In the hundreds of words that she's read, Charlie's not admitted that he loves her. Never yet committed the words to the page, but she sees them all the same and she knows that if Thomas has read any of the entries, he has seen Charles's declarations as well.

In other books there are the pages where he has worked the sums for the houses that they had visited, the properties that they had considered for purchase. The ones that were to be strictly "a business venture" to provide for their retirement. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she smiles remembering the day that he nervously tested the waters of their relationship with that proposal. "As if I would have refused him," she remarks aloud. She traces her fingers over the numbers that are pressed so precisely into the pages. He had calculated the sums three times over and yes, the house on Brouncker Road was the best deal of the lot. She expects to see an entry with Becky's name and perhaps an explanation; expects to read of his reaction to her story of her invalid sister and the reasons why the bonds of their business partnership had to be broken. Instead, there is simply a page reading, "Brouncker Road. Meet with the agent Friday noon. Register it both our names. Elsie should approve when I tell her. Christmas Eve."

The guest house has provided well for them. Charlie has provided well for them indeed.

The handwriting in the last book isn't as crisp and the lines are far from the fluid gracefulness of the earlier ones. Elsie heart aches a bit and she pulls Charles's dressing gown just that extra bit tighter around her. He has written of the palsy that has afflicted him, that has caused him to give up the job that he has loved, that he is known far and wide for. He's worried that he will drive her mad being around the cottage all day and that he will be as useless there as he has become at the Abbey. He worries that Thomas will muck it all up, that he will do something compromise the integrity of the house, perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but some day in the future when he is not around to keep an eye on things or when Elsie retires and can't hold his nose to the grindstone.

Just as Elsie is about to put the little tome down, about to console herself with a brisk walk around the grounds with Lad, she turns a few pages and finds an entry of steady handwriting and more confident language. The entry is dated months after the last she read and her Charlie has come to the realization that Thomas will do well as butler, that he is more than capable, and though it may take both Mrs. Baxter and Lady Mary to do the job of the outgoing housekeeper to keep him in line, the house will run smoothly after all.

Elsie finds her name peppered throughout the page. They've set a date! They are due to retire together, he and Elsie. Charlie is pleased that they will walk out of the servant's hall and down the lane to their cottage together. He still worries that he will that he may drive her mad, but he knows that she is up to the challenge; she always has been.

"Yes, I always have been," Elsie chuckles to herself. "Daft man." At her voice, Lad jumps up to join her on the settee and Elsie tugs him close. "Come on boy. You heard me talking about your Da, did you?"

Elsie holds both Lad and the little book close as she continues to read. Charlie writes of what what he looks forward to in their retirement; a life of early nights and late mornings, Sundays filled with church and friends, long walks, and a return to the little hotel in Scarborough. Elsie closes the last of love letters her husband has written her and holds it close to her heart. She closes her eyes and imagines their first and last days at the seaside and all of their days and nights in between.

"Happy Valentine's Day,Charlie," she whispers.

Suddenly, her cheek is flush with warmth and for the briefest of moments she imagines that Charlie's lips are pressed there once again. She almost feels his breath against her neck and his words softly in her ear.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Elsie."


End file.
